


Roll of the Die

by Wolfeschatten



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comfort/Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfeschatten/pseuds/Wolfeschatten
Summary: Just when Alex finds his life begin to return to normal, he finds himself thrown back into the world of spies and villains. Whilst investigating the murder of a journalist, he uncovers a nefarious plot that is somehow connected with the disappearance of children all over Europe. With the help of old allies, Alex Rider once again goes undercover to prevent the unthinkable and at the same time decide if he wants the normal life he has fought for or that of a spy. Faced with a cultish charity, killers from the mafia, and a madman set on evolution, Alex must to whatever it takes to survive.(Set after Snakehead)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30





	1. Secrecy is the Beginning

Very soon, nothing would be left of the fire but faintly simmering embers and charred remnants of an evergreen. The smoke, tinged with the essence of fir, wafted through the intricate metal grate into the room beyond. The study was peaceful, imbued with a tranquility that was heightened by the dim lighting and dark upholstered furniture. The mansion in which it rested was designed in the classical style of the Napoleonic era, when the Russian aristocracy thought it modish to emulate the sophistication of the East. Of course, the only the fame itself remained of that time as the walls had burned with the rest of Moscow when the French army invaded. Whatever had been housed inside had either been lost to the flames or stolen by those fleeing through the area. The current possessions and furnishings, from the musky tomes lining every inch of the oaken shelves to the trodden wooden floors that illustrated the main path walked, were similarly antique, although gathered from all over the world. The grandest addition to the study was the writing desk that stood before a row of traditional bay windows lined with heavy amaranthine curtains. It was a simple bureau Mazarin, one that had been used by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin during the height of his literary career, but now, over a century later, a man of different domain sat there.

His name was Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov. His bright eyes had been gazing fixedly at the dying fire, but as the last of the flames barely warmed the blackened bricks of the hearth, they focused back on the thick folder laying before him. He had no need to read what it entailed. The details did not concern him anymore; Artyom believed the words of Sergey Nachaev— _tsel’ opravdyvaet sredstva_ —were the only way to ensure his project’s success. But just because the ends justified the means, he could not forget the costs. So, Zharkov took the files as a reminder of the risks—the ones they had taken and what would happen if they were to fail.

Artyom traced a finger delicately around the rim of the _stopka_ , a traditional Russian glass, that sat next to his hand, filled to the top. Upon entering his study, every night, he would pour himself a glass and leave it there, occasionally drawing a finger across its faultless edge but never once taking a sip. It was a custom that confused many of his guests, though his staff had long since grown accustomed to tossing away the untouched spirits every morning.

The new additions to the project were risks, but the recent disappointments left him with no choice. He and his operation would have to adapt if they were to succeed.

A knock brought Artyom’s focus away from the files and to the mahogany door at the entrance of the study. Without waiting for a response, a young man confidently stepped in and bowed his head in a small gesture of respect. Daniil Danis was younger than one would have expected for the head of security for such a prestigious institution, but, at thirty years old, he had quickly proved himself more than capable of ensuring the security of Nenavos Corporation, and willing to do anything to ensure its success. His hair was still closely cropped, despite having left the army years prior, and he had done nothing to rid himself of the brusk demeanor he had developed during his years of service. Artyom rarely saw the young man without an austere expression, and even then, it wasn’t happy or relaxed. Danis’s steely eyes waited for a flicker of acknowledgement from the older man before approaching.

“Artyom Nikolaevich,” Danis greeted. He kept his hands firmly grasped behind his back and stopped before Pushkin’s desk. “ _I apologize for the late hour, but London has just called_.”

Artyom did not react outwardly, although his eyes flickered back to the folder. “ _Is it serious?_ ”

“ _It seems there has been a security breach. Bradlik ensures me his men are—handling it_.”

“ _Do we know who?”_ He ran a finger along the edge of the glass again, careful not to disturb the clear liquid inside.

“ _A journalist. Apparently, he’s been volunteering there for some time. It’s unclear how he made the connection in the first place._ ”

Artyom stood and approached the bay windows. It was snowing outside and frigid, as was typical of Moscow in December. Had there been no storm, he would have a perfect view of the stars; the freezing cold served to emphasize the burning fires from billions of miles away. Zharkov had pulled shut the velvet curtains as soon as the sun set in an attempt to stave off the cold seeping through the glass, but a thin gap had stubbornly refused to remain closed.

“ _Unfortunate, but not unanticipated. Make sure he is dead. I want this to remain quiet for as long as is possible.”_

Daniil bowed his head in recognition. Although Artyom had given permission for the young man to take a less formal manner of speaking when the two were in private, Danis rarely did. He remained at attention but allowed himself a small smile whenever Zharkov took the liberty himself. This familiarity did permit him to speak his mind, especially when it came to business matters.

 _“This isn’t the first time Bradlik and his men have made an error. He believes his family ties make him untouchable. It makes him careless._ ”

Artyom nodded, still facing away from his head of security. “ _Indeed. But the_ solnetsevksye _have been instrumental in attaining subjects._ ”

Daniil ground his teeth. Adam Bradlik was insufferable, although, to him, very few people were _sufferable_. Even as a child, he had loathed interacting with others. Until Artyom found him, Danis had been content to remain where he was: an elite soldier with no ties or family. Then, he was suddenly retiring from service and offering his skills to the Zhakovs with fervent loyalty.

“ _This is true,_ ” Daniil agreed but resolved to ravage the Bradlik bloodline as soon as he outlives his usefulness.

Zharkov remained facing the windows but watched as the young man’s reflection ghosted across the pane. He had driven all the way to the manor with this news, which, although worrisome, could have waited until the next morning or even delivered over the phone. Zharkov let slip a small smile at the thought that Danis had come to visit a certain young woman who worked at the Zharkov residence. He thought to bring it up but dismissed the idea; Daniil was never one to share his feelings, or able to act on them in a competent manner. Instead, he returned to the worries of the project and remarked, “ _we will have to take care in the future. Acquiring new assets may prove difficult. We are already more visible than I would prefer_.”

“ _I can order the men to step down for the time being, tell the German he will have to make do with what he has?_ ”

Artyom hesitated. That would be safer, but it could also delay the timeline. Whilst they didn’t have a physical deadline they had to meet, everything relied on them finding an answer. “ _No,_ ” he decided. “ _Tell them to contin—”_

“Tyoma?”

The two men fell silent as a voice drifted in from the hallway.

“Artyomochka, _ty zdes’_?” _Are you in here?_ A woman appeared on the threshold, her brown eyes slowly shifting from Artyom Zharkov to the younger man.

Artyom smiled softly, a stark contradiction to the impassive, calculative blankness that normally graced his features. He swiftly crossed the room and clasped the woman’s delicate hands with his own. “ _Zolottse_ ,” he murmured and led her to the divan that stood before the fireplace, “ _ya dumal, chto ty zasnula_.” _My love, I thought you had gone to sleep_.

Her delicate, loving gaze traced her husband’s face with a smile. “ _Ya ne mogla spat’_ ,” she replied simply. _I couldn’t sleep_. Although she was nearing the end of her fifties, Mila Zharkov was stunning, the perfect ideal of a Soviet star, with lush chestnut hair that framed her porcelain face. Soft streaks of grey tinged her curls but did nothing to diminish her beauty. A fur-lined dressing robe was drawn loosely around her shoulders despite the chill in the house. Her slight smile shifted to Danis, whom she regarded with fondness.

“ _Dobriy vecher,_ Danya _._ _Ty ostanesh’sya na chai?_ ” _Good evening,_ Danya _. Will you stay for tea?_

Danis hesitated, and Mila grinned knowingly. Artyom wasn’t the only one who suspected he had ulterior motives for visiting the Zharkov manor.

“ _Prostite,_ Ludmila Kirillovna. _Ya ne mogu. Mne pora.” I am sorry, Ludmila Kirillovna. I cannot. It’s time for me to go._ Danis moved towards the door with a slight inclination of his head. He paused at the door and addressed Artyom Zharkov in English. The older man had repeatedly enforced the rule that no business should ever be discussed in front of Mila. “I will speak to Bradlik and alert you as soon as I know the outcome in London. _Do svidaniya, Artyom_ Nikolaevich, Ludmila Kirillovna.”

The door clicked shut.

Artyom thought about laying on a new log in the fireplace, but it was unlikely that it would catch and revive the fire. He didn’t truly need to rekindle the flames; it was late enough in the evening that they would move to the center of the mansion, where it was warmer and more welcoming. Although Artyom did not bring most of his work home with him, he still did not prefer Mila associating with the business side of things, and that included spending a lot of time in the study.

Mila had not moved from her place by the divan and regarded her husband simply. “ _Pochemu vy govorili po-angliski?” Why were you speaking in English?_ she asked. She had told him in the past how frustrated she became at being handled like a child. “ _O chyem govorili?” What were you talking about?_

_“O dele. Nichego vazhnogo.” Business. Nothing important._

“Artyomka,” Mila chided.

“Milochka.” He caressed her face, his fingertips barely tracing the soft skin, reveling in the shiver coursing down her arms. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear, and whispered, “ _obishayu.” I promise._ He kissed her temple.

Mila slipped an arm through her husband’s and gave a slight tug in the direction of the hall, sidling closer, fitting perfectly against his side. She had no desire to remain in the study either. The man she loved existed outside of his work, his soft, loving gaze never far away. Mila tucked her head against his shoulder and asked, “ _khochesh’ chai_? _V samovar eschyo dolzhno ostat’sya voda._ ” _Would you like some tea?_ _There should still be some water in the samovar_.

The hall was shocking compared to the warmth of the study, but not horribly so. The walls were adorned similarly to the other rooms, but the parts of the mansion held more character, a more personal note, unlike the rooms that were solely left to Artyom to decorate. If it were up to him, there would be no portraits, icons, or _kovyor_ —colorful tapestries meant to keep the warmth inside—on the walls, but Mila spent so much time within those walls, she had grown tired and sad of the despondent character. One day, Artyom had tasked Daniil with bringing back as many antiques and adornments as he possibly could, and the shine in Mila’s eyes had been worth it.

She beamed up at him then and glanced inside the kitchen, almost furtively. It was empty—not that Artyom had expected anyone there to begin with. At his questioning gaze, she laughed, a soft melodic sound. “ _Slushai, ya ne dumayu, chto ty prichina togo, chto Danya priexal sevodnya vecherom_ _. K sozhaleniyu.” You know, I don’t think you were the reason Danya came tonight_. _Unfortunately._

Artyom hummed. “Anna.”

Mila stared at him accusingly. “ _Ty uznal?” You knew?_

“ _Mozhet byt’._ ” He wandered about the kitchen, towards the corner of the small room where two cabinets combined into one. He reached up past the top shelf and patted around blindly until his hand brushed a wicker basket, tucked just out of sight. “ _I mozhet byt’, ya znayu, gde Anna pryachet shokolad_ ," he said triumphantly. _And maybe I know where Anna hides the chocolate._

Mila laughed and set about making tea properly, humming a sweet song under her breath. The storm outside gained momentum and hurled torrents of snow and ice through the wind. It snatched away any trace of smoke from the fading embers in the study and sent the last remnants of evergreen aroma back throughout the room. On the bureau, the _stopka_ laid untouched, filled to the brim, next to the file about children who will never be found.

* * *

Hadley Sallows traced the lock on his front door. Trembling fingers pushed against the metal, immediately meeting resistance that proved the lock was engaged, but it did little to mollify the anxious paranoia seeded in his gut. A feverish gleam of sweat painted his face and had done since that afternoon no matter how often he ran the back of his hand across his brow. In all honesty, he had no recollection of how he made it back to his flat. Reason told him that he had walked all the way from the center of London, his feet making the journey instinctually, but the faces he must have seen, the cars he had to have dodged, the streets he crossed were lost to the abyss. That in itself was terrifying. Hadley never forgot specifics, lost track of the details.

He snatched up his mobile from the kitchen table. No matter how he had done it, he was home nonetheless, and he had to tell someone what he had seen. Two digits into the call, Hadley stopped. If he did ring the police, what would he say? _I swear I’m not racist or prejudiced, but I think these Russians may be kidnappers. Why? I may have broken into their computer files, and it’s quite possible they are KGB._ That would not go over well.

Hadley swore and drove the hard edge of the mobile into the bridge of his nose. “It isn’t even the KGB anymore. Idiot.”

For a journalist, he was out of his depths. He may have plausible connections and theories, but there was still no _physical_ evidence to offer the officials. Hadley hadn’t even had a real reason for why he had broken into the center; his cousin had called him without warning a couple months ago and asked for a favor: look into the disappearance of Zoya Arain. Whilst he was more gifted at historical journalism and preferred working with documents over people, Hadley had agreed to try his hand at investigative work, especially after Felix Sallows had provided a picture of the missing little girl. The eleven-year-old had vanished one afternoon, and it seemed she hadn’t been the only one in the past month. And so, Hadley had thrown himself into Interpol and Europol records, U.N. Survey of Trends and Criminal Justice Operations, and just about any BBC article that even mentioned missing children. One thing led to another, and his ability to decipher World War II codes and uncover remote connections between questionable people had delivered him to the front door of an unassuming organization.

The day of the discovery, despite the enormous possibility of the whole theory being entirely coincidental, Hadley signed up as a volunteer on a whim. As it was just over two weeks from Christmas, they gladly accepted the extra hand. The employees, as well as a few of the volunteers, were a bit strange, unnervingly clone-like, and protective of their systems, but after a first impression, none of them seemed the mass-kidnapping sort. Still, he stayed on—because he had nowhere else to look. His guilt prevented him from giving up, threatening to drown him in shame, after having looked the little girl’s mother in the eyes and saying he’d try. But he was an academic and historian, he had no idea what came next if he ran out of leads. Then, after days of nothing but growing worry that he’d failed, Hadley happened across his first piece of evidence that suggested the organization was not as pristinely angelic as they seemed.

Originally, as a last-ditch attempt, he had intended to use one of the offices unsupervised, hoping that the upper-level rooms held something of value. A few of the other volunteers had proven that many of the computers did not require a login strangely enough, but only official employees were allowed unsupervised access. But, as Hadley crept towards the back entrance of the center, garbled, clamorous voices echoed off the cement walls of the car park, and distracted him from his initial goal. He inched closer. The words became clearer, but it took more than a moment for Hadley to realize why he couldn’t comprehend them. The reason wasn’t because his heart was thumping too loudly in his ears. They weren’t even in English. With an impressive number vowels and impossible combination of consonants, the men never seemed to need to breath whilst exchanging words. They grew in volume, thunderously laughing after a few statements. Hadley pressed himself tightly against the side of the garage wall and slid to ground, peering around the edge to where the voices were drifting from. He took care to breath shallowly, unsure whether or not the white cloud his breath made would make him visible at this distance.

Although Hadley couldn’t be entirely sure it wasn’t another Eastern European language, he had worked enough with the language to be confident they were speaking Russian. Gathering the courage to glance around the corner, he saw four men standing beside a generic white van, the letters ECO painted in red along the side. Despite the freezing weather, none of them were wearing true winter jackets. They didn't appear to be bothered at all, even though the exposed skin was already tinged with red and white warnings of hypothermic temperatures.

All four had such an intimidating, daunting demeanor that Hadley instinctively sunk further to the ground and closed his eyes. None of them were below six feet, with broad shoulders and faces that suggested they never even smiled at their grandmothers. Midnight ink burned black against their skin. _Russian mafia maybe?_

The four were gesturing wildly, although whenever one began to gain volume, he immediately dropped his voice once again. They never once said a word in English, and the resounding nature of the garage garbled the foreign words beyond recognition so much so that if they did change languages, Hadley doubted he would have understood anyways. He had resolved to leave when a particularly broad gesture dislodged one man's jacket. A distinct, black object was wedged tightly in the back of his trousers. A hollow ring echoed in his ears.

A gun.

It took all of his restraint not to swear aloud. What was he supposed to do now? There was no reason for the center to have armed guards—a security officer with a baton, maybe. It was not enough to damn the organization, nothing to physically connect them to the disappearances, but Hadley’s presence and investigation suddenly became a threat to whatever operation they were running. Still, he needed more. Having no desire for someone to come across him by chance and out him to the armed, possibly KGB-mafia operatives, Hadley snapped a few blurry photographs with his mobile and scurried back the way he had come.

It only took one more day to slip into an unoccupied office during the day. With one eye on the door, Hadley sifted through any file that may be of use, but a constant thrum coursing through his veins shook his fingers without end. Every other letter typed was a mistake, and Hadley was beginning to feel as if he were drowning. He longed for a library, for his office or flat.

He ran a quavering hand across his forehead. He was running out of time. He pulled up the base function of the computer system, pressing a few keys to initiate a search, then he typed A-R-A-I-N. The screen flashed red then reset to the main login. _SYSTEM ERROR: unauthorized access._

Hadley swore and flinched away from the computer as if he'd been shocked. From that moment, the rest of the day's events blurred into an incomprehensible memory of fear and adrenaline. He fled the center without a word, having lost his nerve the second those four words flashed across the screen. One foot out the door, he glanced back and saw a few employees gathering and pointing and talking, but only one of them met his gaze and moved as if to follow.

By the time Hadley Sallows was in his flat, the door locked and re-locked behind him, he was close to heaving. The floor swayed under his heals. An odd, off-kilter sensation sat behind his eyes and messed with his depth perception. Hadley swore again. Without presence of mind, he moved throughout the flat, finding himself minutes later in front of the kettle, the stove already on, a mug sitting at the ready. The mobile was back in his hand—for the second or third time with the numbers 99 already cued on the screen.

He had the primary files, the photographs, but what else?

A face with a murderous sneer and dead eyes flashed through his mind, always few steps behind for forever but then mysteriously gone a moment later.

Hadley felt the immediate need to check his locks. Again. His mobile slipped from his sweaty grasp, but the shattering thud barely registered as he traced his hand against the lock. The resistance held. He tugged the handle but couldn’t open the door. Again, the lock held.

Hadley heard his breath shake but missed the soft hiss of the window gliding open.

He watched his fingers flex, slowly and fully in his control, but didn’t see the flash of a shadow coming up behind him.

He smelled the musty paint of the front door, the paint that had been there for decades, but was oblivious to the crisp scent of the snow wafting in from outside.

All he felt was a sharp, fleeting pain right in the center of his spine. And then there was nothing.

* * *

Transliteration:

 _Стопка_ = st **o** pka

цель оправдывает средтсва = tsel’ _opr **a** vdyvaet sr **e** dstva = _the end justifies the means (often falsely attributed to Machiavelli; although he expressed the idea, the quote actually came from the Russian revolutionist/terrorist Sergei Nachaev (Сергей Начаев))

Тёма = T **yo** ma

Артёмочка, ты здесь? = Art **yo** mochka, ty zdes'? = Are you in here?

Золотце, я думал, что ты заснула = Z **o** lottse, ya d **u** mal, chto ty zasn **u** la = (lit. gold one) Sweetheart/honey/love, I thought you had gone to sleep

Я не могла спать = Ya ne mogl **a** spat'. = I couldn't sleep. 

Добрый вечер, Даня. Ты останешся на чай? = Dobryi vecher, Danya. Ty ostaneh'sya na chai? = Good evening, Danya. Will you stay for tea?

Простите, Людмила Кириловна. Я не могу. Мне пора = Prost **i** tye, Ludmila Kirillovna. Ya nye mog **u**. Mnye por **a**. = I am sorry, Ludmila Kirillovna. I cannot

Почему вы говорили по-английски? О чём говорили? = Pochem **u** vy govor **i** li po-angl **ii** ski? O ch **yo** m govor **i** li = Why were you speaking in English? What were you talking about?

О деле. Ничего важного = O d **e** le. Nicheg **o** v **a** zhnogo = Business. Nothing important.

Артёмка = Art **yo** mka 

Милочка = M **i** lochka

Хочешь чай? = Kh **o** chesh' chai? = do you want tea?

В самоваре ещё должно остаться вода. = V samov **a** re esch **yo** dolzhn **o** ost **a** t'sya vod **a**. = there should still be some water left in the samovar

ковёр = kov **yo** r

Слушай, я не думаю, что ты причина того, что Даня приехал севодня вечером. К сожалению. = Slush **ai** , ya ne dum **ay** u, chto ty prich **i** na tov **o** , chto D **a** nya pri **e** xal sev **o** dnya v **e** cherom. K sozhal **e** niyu. = You know, I don’t think that Danya came to see you. Unfortunately.

Ты узнал? = Ty uznal? = You knew?

И может быть я знаю, где Анна прячет шоколод. = I mozhet byt', ya zn **a** yu, gdye Anna pr **ya** chet shokol **a** d. = And maybe I know where Anna hides the chocolate.

* * *

**To clarify, most often, italics when in quotations or following quotations means that it is a foreign language. The italics at the beginning imply that Artyom and Danis are speaking in Russian. When Mila enters, she is therefore speaking Russian (the following italics are the translation in English).**

**This is meant to be a story in Anthony Horowitz's style, so the first chapter may seem slow, but it is setting up the master plot.**

**As a sort of disclaimer, I have studied a fair amount of Russian, but I am not natively fluent, so if there are mistakes, feel free to message me the edits. I am also American; I will try to keep up the British colloquialisms, but the spellings may vary (my computer does not recognize British spellings)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to include a lot of Russian culture and language nuances (I will explain some in the context of the story) but if there are any aspects you don't understand or want to know about, let me know in the comments.  
> I absolutely love the language and culture, so I also mean to be respectful and accurate. I am coming from a foreign perspective, so if I make mistakes, also please let me know, and I will fix it.


	2. Fate aids the Courageous

For a moment, Alex couldn't see. Then near darkness that followed the end credits gave way to the lights in the lobby, and he squinted in an attempt to limit the sensory input. Gradually, his eyes stopped protesting the artificial light. The others in the lobby had already begun to stream outside, and Alex found himself caught in a rather large group of friends. Briefly, he glanced around, but he didn't have to look long before he sighted a familiar mop of blackish brown hair. Tom hadn't felt the need to wait for his friend inside the cinema and waited—almost—patiently just outside the doors. He was still shoveling the last bit of popcorn into his mouth by the time Alex fell in step beside him.

Taking a moment to zip up their jackets, they set off down the street, occasionally dodging the other bustling pedestrians, who were intent on making their way to their next destination as quickly as possible. Already most of the shops on street Road were exploding with decorations for the holidays, despite it being the first week in December. The sweet aroma of roasting nuts wafted through the air whenever there was a breeze. A few strands of lights flickered on overhead as the sun inched closer towards the horizon, taking with it the last bit of the day's warmth.

Tom dug through his jacket pockets and produced a hat. "Did you see that move Tom Cruise's character did during that fight in the jungle?"

Alex was impressed the other boy had managed to get an entire block from the cinema before beginning his post-film rant. He didn't respond, but Tom never seemed bothered by the fact that Alex rarely did when it came to dissecting fight sequences. In fact, his friend seemed perfectly content to pick apart whatever film he had most recently seen, whether Alex knew what he was talking about or not.

"It was truly absurd. I mean, I know the director's want to capitalize on Cruise's famous stunts scenes and all, but I'm pretty sure kicking someone like that, in the jugular, would be a killing shot or something."

Alex hummed in agreement. In all honesty, he didn't care for the film. He had only agreed to go because it was something _normal_ that he could do with his friend. He had returned from Australia, knowing exactly what his godfather had done, what had happened to his parents, and he was supposed to just go back to being a teenager. Walking down the street with his best mate, that was exactly how Alex felt.

He tilted his head back and sighed, finding mild amusement in the puffy white cloud that dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He should be happy that he had the opportunity to do something as casual as go to the cinema, but somehow it felt…wrong. Alex had made an appearance on the last day of school before the break, played football with some of his old school friends, and had even had absolutely no contact with the bank. He should at the very least be content with the turn of events.

"Are we really supposed to believe that they just happened to stumble upon the one person who knew what the hell was going on?" Tom seemed to be oblivious to Alex's conundrum. He had found jellies from somewhere and was munching on them in between thoughts. "I mean I understand life is coincidental to a certain extent, and there's that whole 'nine degrees of separation' thing, but—"

Alex glanced at his friend. He couldn't tell if Tom was testing whether Alex was paying attention or if he truly thought it was _nine_ degrees. He shrugged. It was most likely the latter, if Alex were being honest; Tom hated reading.

"—definitely think the sidekick deserves more appreciation. We all know it's the little guy who comes to the rescue in the end."

"And you think that's you then, do you?" Alex grinned. "The little guy?"

Tom shoved him in retaliation.

The two boys continued their way back towards Chelsea. Neither of them had any reason to hurry home, so they leisurely navigated around straggling groups of tourists. Alex was making surprising headway in his coursework with the help of a new tutor—Mr. Grey refused to work with him after Alex's vanishing act in Italy—and Tom had no desire to spend more time than necessary around his parents, who, in Tom's words, were 'bloody nightmares.' They were still in the process of separating, but apparently hadn't gotten any better since the summer. It is entirely likely they hadn't notice Tom slip out earlier in the day during one of their more tumultuous screaming matches.

Alex didn't envy his friend. Whilst the fact that he never knew his parents pained him beyond measure, he didn't think he could cope with his mum and dad hating one another. Instead, he had to deal with the melodramatic reality of heinous psychopaths and plots to bring about the next Holocaust. And now that he was safe to walk down the street as himself and without fear that someone was about to do him harm, doubt and the absence of something were wheedling their way into his gut, like worms rotting an apple from the inside out. Alex supposed something had to be wrong with him.

Tom snapped his popcorn flavored fingers in front of his friend's eyes.

Slapping the offending hand away, Alex sent him a bemused glance. "What?"

"Are you okay?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his shoes resolutely. "Like, honestly though?"

The seriousness of the question brought Alex to a full stop. An annoyed huff of another pedestrian alerted him to the fact the two boys were blocking the majority of the sidewalk, but Alex didn't care. "Yeah, why d'you ask?"

"It's just—oi, watch it!"

Someone barreled between Tom and Alex. The man glanced back, but his gaze went through the two boys, focusing on something farther down the street.

The man had obviously been running for some time. Despite the deep chill in the air, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face. His breath came in short, shallow puffs. His ears burned a deep magenta, the kind of color that meant, as soon as the appendages regained any bit of heat, they would begin to burn horribly. He blinked once, his eyes flooded with fear. Without so much as a mouthed apology, the man was gone. The only evidence of his presence were other angered exclamations as he bumped into even more people down the street.

Not a minute later, Alex felt himself once again shoved to the side as a second man rushed by. The new individual, however, had the complete opposite countenance. Where the first man was skittish, he was determined and apathetic.

Alex knew without a doubt that this second man was following the other. His pulse thrummed. The man had unmistakably been terrified of his tail. His mouth was suddenly dry in anticipation of a pursuit.

Alex shook his head. Whatever that was, it didn't have anything to do with him. He was a normal kid on holiday… Still, he found his eyes tracing the path both men had disappeared down. "Have you done any gift shopping yet?" he asked, wanting to forget.

Tom latched onto question gladly. He had no doubt seen how his friend had been staring after the two men. "Not at all," he admitted. "Though, I supposed I could always find something for mum and dad from Naples. Did I tell you I'm going to spend Christmas with Jerry?"

Alex shook his head.

"It was his idea actually. Probably figured he'd end up getting brained with a plate or something if he came home." He'd said it with humor, but neither commented on the fact that it had gotten bad enough that accidental impalement could be considered a possibility. "Mind you, I've now got to find something for Jerry. Don't suppose you could ask that Smithy bloke to send along a gadget for me?"

"Not unless you want it to explode in your luggage," Alex grinned shrewdly. Smithers devices had the unfortunate tendency to explode on occasion.

"Better not then," Tom smiled back.

Silence fell between them. Eventually, they passed fewer and fewer people until it was just the two of them walking along in the increasing darkness. By the time they reached the corner where Alex had to turn off onto King's road, it was completely night, and both boys had begun to shrink deeper into the jackets in order to limit the amount of skin exposed to the cold. Alex already regretted not bringing his gloves with him when Jack had suggested. He also already decided he would _not_ admit that to her when he got home.

Tom stamped his feet to get the blood moving again. "Talk tomorrow, yeah?"

Alex nodded. He tried to shove his hands further into his pockets. "Tomorrow then." He didn't wait to see if Tom was going to say anything else, but rather turned on his heels and jogged home. Shutting the door behind him, he cursed and wrung his red hands together. In a moment, they would be burning and prickling painfully. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his jacket before wandering deeper into the townhouse.

All the lights were off except for those in the kitchen. A soft melody drifted down the hall, a slightly off-tune voice singing milliseconds too late. Coming around the corner, Alex was greeted with the sight of Jack swaying and bopping to the music, a ladle in one hand and a fierce glare set on her face. She hadn't seen him yet. She was staring at the pot on the stove, like the appliance had in some way offended her.

"Isn't there an old adage about watching pots?" Alex finally said.

Jack shrieked. "Damnit, Alex!" She brandished the ladle at him. "How many times have I told you not to sneak up behind me like that?"

Alex smirked. "Sorry. But you've got the best reactions." He slipped into one of the chairs at the island. "What are you making?"

"Soup." Jack stirred the pot, spooning some of the liquid with the ladle then watching it intently as she let it splash back into the pot. "It looks a little…chunky. I don't think it's supposed to be chunky." Jack let another spoonful plop back into the pot. Apparently satisfied enough that the chunks would not kill either of them, she scooped out two portions and handed one to Alex. "Want a grilled cheese to go with?"

Alex inspected the soup. Tomato. He smiled as innocently as he could manage, "if you mean a cheese toastie, then yes." A hot, buttery sandwich flew at him like a frisbee. He dunked it into the bowl and took a bite. Even after years of living in England, Jack had staunchly held onto her Americanisms, something that Alex reveled in poking fun at. He grinned. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack returned the sentiment brightly and dipped her own sandwich into the red soup. She moaned dramatically. “Just like Grandpappy Campbell used to make.” Through a few more bites of the sandwich, she asked, “so how was the _film_?”

Alex shrugged uncommittedly. “Bit overhyped, but Tom seemed to find it entertaining enough.”

“Yeah, well, Tom finds the Nyan cat entertaining, so I don’t exactly trust his judgment.”

Alex smirked into his soup but didn’t comment. It wasn’t too late in the evening; he knew he should be reading as he ate or putting his things in order so he could work after the meal; but the chill in the air, the mind-numbing film, and general lack of desire to be productive sapped away his willingness to do revision. Maybe, if he bribed himself with something, he would feel more motivated—he could always see if Tom could play footie tomorrow as a reward for finishing his maths. Or rather, if Tom was off to Naples soon, he could probably convince Jack to try, though she was completely abysmal at it.

“Weren’t you supposed to be out tonight?” Alex suddenly remembered. “With that bloke from the coffee shop?”

Jack groaned, “he was cute, but he was—too nice? Like, really sweet and nice in the ‘he has to be hiding some weird Oedipal complex’ sense or ‘I hide bodies in the closet’ kind’, you know” She dropped her head onto her arms melodramatically. “Apparently, I prefer unavailable losers.”

Alex stared owlishly and slowly dipped his sandwich into his soup again, wisely choosing not to comment.

“Besides, I don’t need no man, when I’ve got you.” Jack hooked her arm around Alex’s shoulders and steered him towards the tellie on the other side of the adjoining room. It was a challenge: keeping the blood-red soups and greasy sandwiches as she jostled her surrogate brother playfully towards the couch. Neither wanted to clean up the mess, but that didn’t stop their childish antics. “Want to watch a movie? I’m thinking _Scrooged_. Cause I’m _scrooged_ in the man department.”

“I just got back from the cinema,” he reminded her, laughing.

Jack shrugged and dislodged herself from Alex’s side, tucking her legs underneath her on the sofa in an impressive feat considering she never set the dishes down. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She flicked through the options until she found exactly what she had been looking for. Alex followed her example and took his usual place on the sofa, fully content to waste more time on mindless distractions. He could always start his work the next morning; not to mention, he had an actual tutor to keep him on track during the holiday break. In no time at all, he was completely enamored in Bill Murray’s retelling of _A Christmas Carol_.

* * *

_Alex stood in a large empty field. To his right, a shed, worn by decades of predictable English weather, towered over him. To his left, a long strip of asphalt stretched from the edge of the trees to the other. The sun was nearing its apex but did little to stave off the slight chill in the air. Dew from the early morning still clung to the blades of grass. Where was he?_

_A rumbling engine roared to life from inside the shed. The sliding shed doors opened. A plane, an Embraer Phenom 300, crept from its storage, rolling to a stop at the place where the grass met the asphalt. It was a small plane, meant for six passengers at the most, capable of international flights. The door released a set of steps in preparation for embarkment. Alex peered into the cockpit window. No one was at the controls._

_A young woman appeared next to Alex, her arm reaching behind her. She caught the hand she'd been searching for and gave it a gentle tug. She smiled._

_"Allons-y, mon amour."_

_She led a young man towards the plane, that still idled on the runway. The man had fair hair, longer than what some would consider stylish but not unkempt. He wore simple blue jeans and a collared shirt. A smile never left his face. Alex thought he finally understood what people about eyes glowing with unbridled love when he saw the man merely glance in the woman's direction._

_"Where am I?" Alex asked. Or he tried to. His mouth formed the words, but nothing came of it. He tried to follow the couple towards the plane, but his legs refused to._

_An inkling of terror wormed its way up his throat. Alex_ hated _being restrained. Hate was too simple an emotion. Loathing, terror, revulsion, anxiety. He_ couldn't _allow himself to be stuck in the same place, because that meant he'd been caught, or worse. He wanted to jerk, to thrash, but when the man and woman glanced behind them, sending a wave and smile to someone back in the hangar, all thoughts of escape vanished._

_"Mum. Dad."_

_Helen and John Rider ascended the stairs and entered the cabin._

_Alex's terror burned anew, but it was nothing to do with the fact he still could not move from his place by the hangar. He didn't want to see this. There was only one reason Helen would be accompanying her husband on a private plane._

_A new man came to stand next to Alex. His unkempt curly black hair was brushed back like the first time Alex had laid eyes on him. His black eyes stared, pained and unmoving, at the jet that was running through the last few checks before takeoff. After sighting the two passengers through the miniature oval windows, Ash turned his distressed black eyes onto Alex. Blood oozed down the man's shirt from two distinct holes in his chest._

_"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't want you to know."_

_Alex tried to respond. He managed a muted sob, as if he'd been gagged._

_Ash removed a device from his trouser pocket and fingered the smooth plastic. It was small and plain, unassuming. He pried away the red safety feature on the side. A silver switch rested underneath._

_"I don't want to." He sounded tormented. "but it's a test."_

_Alex shook his head._ Please, don't. Please. _One word ripped from his throat: "no."_

_Ash flicked the switch._

Alex shot up from his bed. His breath matched his heart in speed and force. Sweat instantly cooled his back. His shirt clung to his skin tenaciously, and he swung his legs out from under the covers. That hadn't been the first time he had dreamt of Ash, but he had yet to dream of his parents' murder. Sometimes, he was back at Chada Trading Agency fighting for his life whilst Ash watched indifferently; other times, he was being bombarded with missiles, although not in the Australian jungle like he'd actually experienced. Instead, he was constantly surrounded by heat and shrapnel and smoke until finally he couldn't draw in breath and felt as if he were drowning, Ash's dead eyes piercing the back of Alex's skull.

Nightmares were not a novel experience. Ever since the first near-death experience, Alex relived many of the terrors he'd seen. It wasn't like what most films described; they weren't a replay of past events, but rather the dreams contained elements or feelings that lent themselves in the shape of a disturbing collage. Sometimes Alex's imagination painted an entirely new canvas of horrors, like the one he experienced last night about his parents.

Alex drove the heel of his palms into his eyes until he saw ethereal lights. The clock on his bedside table flashed the time is bright red digits: 09:02. Jack would be up by now. He threw on one his plain grey sweatshirts and padded down the hall, pausing only to listen for any telltale signs of life downstairs. Sure enough, he could hear the faint sizzling of the stove and smell the bitter aroma of coffee.

He walked downstairs and peeked around the corner. Jack was still in her pajamas: red and black flannel trousers and a black singlet. Her bright red curls were tied up in an artistically messy bun. Before he could go any further into the room, Jack threw a finger in his direction.

"I see you, mister," she said accusingly. She never even turned around to look at him.

He held up his hands in his defense. "I wasn't doing anything."

Jack harrumphed and turned back to her eggs, humming a song that suspiciously sounded like "Baby, it's cold outside." Alex grabbed a mug and set about making tea. The mini-TV played in the background on silent, the closed captions flitting by almost too fast for him to read. Ian had always been the one to turn the news on in the morning, and after nearly eight years of cohabitation, Jack had picked up the habit in his stead.

On an average day, the reporter would cover movements in Buckingham Palace, especially since the newlyweds had welcomed a baby into the family. A few photos of the child and smiling parents sped by, with a few shots of St. James's Park done up in Christmas lights. It didn't hold much interest for Alex, who watched the screen from behind his cup of tea. Unlike Jack and the rest of the Starbrights— _Christmas starts the moment Turkey Day is over in the Starbright household_ , she'd once said—he found the holidays more enjoyable when done in moderation.

Alex was about to turn away from the television when a new picture caught his eye.

The segment on the current affairs was over, and a new reporter animatedly gestured with her hands, indicating to her left where the editors had inserted a photo, most likely taken from a work ID. The man in the picture had a naturally gaunt face and kind of scrawny figure someone would describe as toothpick-like. His casual suit hung awkwardly on his shoulders, indicating that it was not very expensive or tailored to begin with. He was baring his teeth in that stiff, inelegant smile most people adopted when getting their picture taken. His eyes didn't hold the same terror they had the night before.

Alex recognized him immediately. He grabbed the remote and flicked on the sound.

"—found late last night, stabbed to death in his flat. Neighbors reported hearing no disturbances around the suspected time of death. Hadley Sallows, forty-one, worked as a journalist at the Berrow's Chelsea Journal. Investigators are unable to say whether or not Sallows was a target due to his work or if his death was the result of a burglary gone wrong. Inspector Brandon, who is in charge of the case, has stated that he does not suspect this to be a serial event, and whilst the public should always be aware of their surroundings, there is nothing to indicate a pattern at this time. Sallows—"

The screen turned black. Alex spun in his seat and found Jack frowning at the telly.

"It's a bit too early for murder talk."

Alex didn't respond. _Hadley Sallows_. He'd known the man was scared and that he was being chased, but Alex hadn't contemplated the possibility of murder. If anything, he thought maybe Sallows had been running from a bookie or something. Alex stared at his reflection in the black screen.

"So, I was thinking," Jack leaned across the counter and absentmindedly fiddled with the spoon in her coffee. "What do you think of the idea of taking a bit of a vacation? Mama Starbright has invited all the aunts and uncles and baby cousins over for Christmas, so there's going to be this whole big to do in D.C. Could be fun."

Alex couldn't deny the burning in his gut. The only other time he had felt something like it had been in France, when he had abandoned Sabina on the beach in order to chase Yassen Gregorovich. But what was so special about the murder of an English journalist? What had he gotten mixed up in that resulted in his death? Alex thought back to Edward Pleasure. The older Pleasure had been investigating Damian Cray and had almost been killed, Liz and Sabina nearly collateral damage because of it. Months of villains and evil masterminds had tainted Alex's sense of perception. Whoever killed Sallows was more than likely a normal, unexceptional, commonplace killer, but on the off chance they weren't…Could Alex ignore the possibility and accept the consequences, whatever they may be?

"Alex?"

Without even knowing he'd decided to, Alex had already gotten to his feet and setting his mug in the sink. "I've forgot, I told Tom I'd help him shop for Christmas gifts." He'd slipped on his winter coat, stuffed his gloves in his pockets, shoved his feet in his trainers, and had one hand on the doorknob before Jack even had the chance too react. "I'll be back before dark," he called over his shoulder. With a last moment thought, he snagged his school bag and computer.

Alex breathed in and sighed. He'd learned long ago to trust his instincts. And right now, they were telling him that Hadley Sallows's death was more than a cut-and-dry murder. With only a slight feeling of guilt for what he was about to do, Alex hunched his shoulders against the wind and set off down the street.

* * *

"Yes, hello, is the editor-in-chief in?" He paused. "May I speak with him please? It's about Hadley Sallows." Alex waited again as the person on the other end covered the speaker with her palm. He could vaguely hear garbled words.

He had resolved to begin his inquiry at the most obvious starting point: what was the man investigating. He had wandered long enough to feel the biting cold despite his multiple layers and finally decided to take refuge in a café. Having ordered a hot chocolate and staked a claim on a table in the corner of the shop, Alex had sought out the business number for Crimson Comet. The newspaper was small and locally run. Already their website shared the death announcement, including a small obituary and past works Hadley Sallows had written, most of which centered on historical investigative work. Towards the end of the page, people had posted messages about having worked with the man or having read some of his pieces. None articulated overwhelming emotion, bereavement, or love. They expressed sadness and appreciation of his work, but nothing more. It was thoroughly depressing.

Alex had predicted the line would be busy with callers, at least with some curious individuals wanting to know more about the man who had met such an unfortunate end, but someone had answered by the second ring.

"Aaron Cassado speaking." A new voice came through the speaker. "Hello?"

Alex sat up straighter. A pencil rested in his hand, hovering over a notebook. "Hello, my name is Alex. I'm calling in regard to Hadley Sallows."

"Avery said." Mr. Cassado paused. "Well? If this is some macabre interest in the case, I can tell—"

"No, no, it's not," Alex cut in. "I, er, I'm—was—his cousin." Lying about a familial relationship was a bit of a gamble, but after the pathetic memorial on the internet, Alex was willing to bet Sallows kept his life as private as possible.

For a moment, Alex thought the editor had hung up on him. Then, finally, "I'm very sorry for your loss." He did sound sympathetic, or at the very least embarrassed. "I must apologize, but we have got a couple of calls already asking about the Police and their investigation. It's been a bit of a day already." Mr. Cassado spoke with a vaguely Mancunian accent, dulled from years living in London. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was actually hoping to ask you a few questions about Hadley? I, er—he was quite a bit older than me, so I didn't know him all that well. Mum is absolutely distraught over it all, and I don't have the heart to ask my aunt. And I know the most important thing to him was being a journalist, so I figured, if I wanted to learn anything new about him, I'd start there." Alex rushed through the explanation as best he could, pinching at his nose to add just the right amount of nasally whine to his voice. "I—" he cleared his throat, "I want to know what he was like, is all."

The next time the man spoke, his voice sounded even softer than before. "I'm not sure I could tell you much," Mr. Cassado admitted. "I'm sure you already know how quiet Hadley was. Whenever he dug his claws into a story, he rarely shared anything until it was ready for publishing."

"Do you know what he was working on when—before—he, you know?"

"Honestly," the man sighed. "No."

Alex held back a swear. Knowing what the man had got into would have been helpful, but there was more than one way to find the answer. He chewed on the end of his pen and tried to think of a way to ask for Hadley's address without sounding suspicious.

"I do know it wasn't exactly what normally did."

"What d'you mean? Was it not on something historical?"

"Not that I'd gathered. He was spending a lot of time out of the office, whatever it was." Mr. Cassado fell silent as a woman's voice resounded in the background, too far away to be more than garbled noise. "I'm sorry, Alex, but I've got a meeting now. I truly am sorry for your loss. Hadley was a great man and intuitive journalist."

Hadley had been working at the Berrow's Chelsea Journal for half a decade, and all the editor-in-chief was able to say was the man had been an intuitive journalist. Once again, Alex felt pity for Hadley Sallows. His sympathy only added to his resolution to see this to the end. Even if the death turned out to be a simple murder, Alex would see it through.

His hot chocolate had grown cold, but his focus stayed on his computer. He had hoped to get Sallows's address from Cassado; it would have been simpler. Lucky for Alex, since the advent of the internet, nearly everything was available with some effort. Smithers had shown Alex during one of his stays at MI6 headquarters, just how to make use of the internet. Legally, of course. Unless someone knew how to enable all privacy features embedded in every social media and web browser, then that information was somewhere in the digital cloud, and most people were inevitable ignorant of those options. Alex made use of the ignorance and inserted the key phrases Smithers had provided. To be fair, he reckoned Smithers had programmed a benign Trojan Horse in his laptop that did all the heavy lifting, but the gadget-maker hadn't mentioned it—and Alex wasn't about to check in case he got Smithers in trouble.

Sallows's flat ended up being just south of Chelsea, which made sense given he had literally stumbled into Alex whilst in the southern borough. The complex looked like any other in Battersea, slightly more industrial than those found in Chelsea but also with a distinct old-Victorian style. Sallows's was situated close to Battersea Park, tucked at the end of the street. With only three floors, it was on the smaller side of some of the other complexes, but that made Alex's job easier if he were to break in. A police car was parked across from the building. The officer inside reclined against his seat, having all the hallmarks of being both bored and relaxed, but Alex knew if he tried to break into a recent crime scene, through the front door no less, the officer would not be so remiss for long.

He shouldered his rucksack and tried to appear as inconspicuous and confident as he could. Ian had long ago impressed upon Alex the idea that trying to hide one's actions often led them to getting caught. True masters of the unseen knew to be confident and act as if they belonged. He strode past the front door to the narrow alleyway along the side. Sallows lived on the second floor in unit 8, which, according to the public construction records, was on the right side of the building. Alex really hoped there was easy access to a fire escape.

Fortunately, he lost sight of the candy car, which also meant he had disappeared from view for the time being. Unfortunately, the fire escape did not run down that side of the building and galivanting around to find a new access point would definitely draw unwanted attention. Alex had to manage with where he was. He took in the bricked wall that jutted out from the apartment building itself, probably fencing in a private patio for the ground floor flat. The wall stretched to a height of two and a half meters, with a few wooden slats that added another half meter. A drainage pipe followed the corner trimming, ending at the start of the wooden fence and traveling past the window to Sallows's flat. With a running start, Alex easily should be able to grab the wall's ledge and shimmy along the pipe to the window.

There were only two possible problems. The first being if the window were locked. Alex doubted he would have the leverage to break the glass, nor would he want to with the police around the corner. The second was if he had made a mistake. If he somehow managed to get in through the window but had misjudged which flat was Sallows's, then someone was about to get a real shock.

Alex flexed his fingers. He had come this far already. He bounced on his heels once then charged at the discolored brick wall. His fingers grasped painfully at the stone, and he scrambled for leverage as he strained to keep the meager grip on the ledge. Alex snatched at the wooden slats, mindful not to pull too much in case it had rotted over the years. Haltingly, he perched himself on the top of the wall, one foot on the outside of the wooden barrier, the other on the inside. He shuffled to the conjunction and pulled experimentally on the drainage pipe.

It creaked. Excess water and dried gunk dislodged and crumbled out of the opening, but the pipe itself held firm. One foot at a time, Alex wedged his hands behind the pipe and started to scale the metal. Uncomfortably aware of how horrible his prospects were if he fell, Alex refused to look down. He did not have far to go, and within a couple minutes, he was peeking in the window for any telltale signs of police or inhabitants. He saw nothing.

Alex nudged the glass pane. It gave way with a faint hiss. Alex felt like cheering but settled for heaving himself through the opening. He crouched on the kitchen counter and waited for any sign of life. Again, there was nothing. He hopped down silently.

Was that how the murderer had gotten in, Alex wondered. Or had Sallows opened the door and invited his killer in?

Glancing around the small flat, it was obvious the police had already looked around but not found much in the way of evidence. The tea kettle sat on the stove, entirely charred. Sallows must have been making tea when he was killed. Books and newspapers were neatly stacked on most flat surfaces, but the walls barely held any personal touches. One or two pictures rested in cheap frames that were pushed back behind a larger pile of history books; Hadley Sallows had an arm wrapped around another man's shoulders. They were both grinning broadly at the camera, standing on a nondescript bridge. If the resemblance was anything to go by, the other man was a brother or cousin. Alex hoped he wasn't the one to find Sallows's corpse.

He stepped carefully, not wanting to leave anything of himself behind, but stopped as soon as he saw the massive reddish-brown puddle directly before the front door. Alex swallowed back the sour taste in the back of his throat.

Knowing he was short on time, Alex started his inspection of the flat. He checked the obvious hiding places first despite the fact the police would have already done so. The draws held various takeaway menus and miscellaneous belongings. The seemingly endless piles of books, journals, and notes ranged from Nazi codes, to American spy rings, to correspondents that were recently released by the royal family. Nothing was overly controversial or explained why Sallows had been running for his life the night before. His freezer held only food, the small gap under his bed hid a large number of dust balls, and the tins in his cupboards stored coffee grounds and tea leaves.

As the obvious hideaways yielded no results, Alex switched his mindset to that of a spy, and a teenage one at that. Any place he had already checked, he examined again, running a hand under every draw, testing for hidden backs and clasps, scrutinizing every detail. Alex dropped to his stomach and laid his head against the floor, first in the living room, the bathroom, then the kitchen. The torch from his phone exposed more details about the carpet and hardwood floor of a flat than he ever wanted to see. He was about to move to the bedroom but paused. Something blinked back from under the stove. Alex waved his torch and saw the same glint again. He reached out blindly and bumped against something smooth lodged firmly between the floor and the stove. He tugged it free.

A black phone rested in his palm, the screen shattered in more than one place. Alex pressed the lock button, and the screen came to life. How had the police missed this? He swiped at the screen. _Enter Passcode_ blinked back at him.

Alex sent a cursory glance at his watch and swore. He'd been in the flat for fifteen minutes already. The policeman outside may do a check soon, or the investigator could come back, or something else could go wrong—with Alex's luck, the murderer could even make a reappearance. He slipped the phone into his rucksack and moved to the bedroom for a last look. Resolving to leave in five minutes no matter if he didn't find anything more, Alex pilfered carefully through the wardrobe along one wall. Nothing new. The bed was made, and all the corners were neatly tucked. The last place to recheck was the small closet in the hall leading back to the kitchen.

When Alex had first inspected the closet, he had noticed piles of spare linens, old trainers and winter boots, boxes of old knickknacks and clothes. He dug through one of the boxes of clothes on a whim. And grinned. It seemed Hadley Sallows had been paranoid and taken the precaution to hide his research where most wouldn't think to look. He'd taken care to disperse his files throughout worn-out shirts and jackets, taking deliberate care to re-fold everything as it had been before. The articles and reports were so well scattered, that they barely added to the bulk of the individual articles of clothing. Alex slid out every paper he could find and replaced them into his rucksack. He returned the boxes, shut the closet door, and made his way back out the way he had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome


	3. More Deceptive than Obvious Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to that amazing review! It made my day :)  
> Like always, if there are mistakes or suggested edit, leave a note

Alex let the latch slip shut. He waited, listening for the telltale patter of Jack’s slippers on the hardwood floor. Silence. He slipped off his shoes and crept further into the townhouse. It wasn’t that he needed to avoid her, but on the way home, Alex had suddenly comprehended what she had asked him over breakfast. Jack wanted to take Alex to America. For a few weeks at most, but that meant abandoning his investigation, allowing the leads to go cold and possibly vanish forever.

Alex couldn’t help but feel guilty and selfish. Although London may be Jack’s home now, her family still lived eight and a half hours away by plane. He was the only thing stopping her from hopping in a taxi to Heathrow and spending the holidays with her parents. He knew there was a newborn in the family too, and Jack had only been able to wave over Skype. But Alex didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to see the crushing disappointment in her eyes when he told her such.

And so, he resolved to put off the discussion for as long as possible.

Alex wanted to get to his room unchecked so he could spend more than a second on the papers he’d found at the journalist’s flat. He’d rushed home as soon as his feet touched the ground; the sun had already been low in the sky, and Alex was beginning to get cold despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The added weight in his rucksack chafed against his shoulders, but he’d had worse. Brecon Beacons had ensured that.

His foot had reached the third step, when Jack appeared from her room and stood on the landing. Aside from the raised eyebrow and cocked hip, she didn’t acknowledge Alex’s obvious intention of sneaking past her.

“Have fun with Tom?”

The question felt like a trap. Did she know he’d lied? He shrugged noncommittedly. She didn’t move from her position of power, knowing full well that Alex wouldn’t push past her to get to his room. She was waiting for something from him, and Alex didn’t think it had to do with Tom anymore.

“I don’t want to go,” he admitted finally.

Jack sighed. “Can I ask why?”

Alex stopped himself from shrugging and settled for scuffing his foot on the stairs. He didn’t want to meet her eyes because he could already imagine the searching worry that simmered just below the surface. His hair trembled when he shook his head. “I just don’t,” he answered lamely.

He heard her shift and finally looked at Jack. She was staring into her room, or away from him, her hands resting on her hips. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek, something she always did when trying not to get angry or annoyed. Again, gnawing guilt ate away at Alex’s gut, but the pain was not enough to make him reconsider. The files seemed to be growing heavier in his bag. The straps burned into his shoulders. He couldn’t leave now.

“It could be good for us,” Jack pushed. “Get away from London, and the bank, and—memories. We could go to the Smithsonian and the Lincoln Memorial and all those clichéd sites so we can laugh at the tourists riding around on Segways.” A small sad smile brightened her face, hopeful.

Alex shook his head. “I don’t need to—escape from London, Jack. I’m fine. I’m happy here. —You should go, though. Spend the holiday with your family.” Alex pretended not to notice the sharp intake of breath or how her eyes shot to his face. “I can stay with the Harris’ or something.”

His voice sounded quiet even to his own ears. His feet moved of their own accord towards his room, and Jack stepped aside.

“Alex, honey,” she started.

He didn’t know why he had said that, but he meant it. She had given up so much for him; it wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked for this when signing on to be an au pair to a seven-year-old. Alex closed his door, conveying to Jack to leave him alone for the time being, and dropped onto his bed. The school bag prevented him from collapsing all the way onto his back, though the draw of completely toppling over into the duvet remained. He sighed. It was too late to change anything now; he’d said it, and he might as well get some reading done before Jack refused to let him wallow in his room like a hormonal teenager.

Alex carefully took out the stack of papers he had found hidden in Sallows’s closet. Judging from the extra caution that had gone into its storage, the papers held something of value. Just what that value was, Alex was determined to find out.

The top few pages were revealed to be police reports for three missing British children, all under the age of fifteen: Arain, Zoya; Lloyd, Jonathan; and Vivier, Hanna. All three had disappeared within the past four months. Zoya Arain was the most recent.

Zoya had attended school the morning of her disappearance, left on foot in the direction of her home, but never arrived. Her parents, both Pakistani immigrants, usually worked late into the evenings, so the police reckoned she had been abducted—or run away—between the hours of sixteen hundred and twenty hundred. Neighbors described the young girl as quiet and sweet, always humming and waving as she walked by. A small hand-scribbled note appeared to be the work of Sallows and read: _trusting, either knew abductor or fell for ruse?_ The police interviewed known pedophile offenders in the area. All had apparent alibis, none were suspected. The report went on to describe the background of the Arain family, detailing any xenophobic or racist interactions they had faced since arriving in the country. Fortunately, it seemed they had experienced very little and had quickly made amicable ties with their neighbors. A second note annotated this passage, written in the same hurried scrawl as before: _Z targeted, not family. Same route home, predictable._ A last missive decorated the bottom of the final page. He had underlined three letters multiple times. _Went to ECO for food._

_ECO_. Alex had never heard the acronym before, but from his quick skim through at Sallows’s flat, he remembered seeing similar letters on other pages as well.

Jonathan Lloyd’s and Hanna Vivier’s reports were less so flattering. It seemed Jonathan, aged thirteen, had a penchant for fighting and truancy—that is, when he wasn’t suspended. Most recently, the month of his disappearance, Jonathan had been banned from school grounds citing a month’s suspension. He had beaten a fellow student into unconsciousness after, according to multiple students’ accounts, the boy had made derogatory comments about Lloyd’s homelife. Again, Sallows had hurriedly commented that _no one would miss him_. And the journalist had been correct. Jonathan lived with his father, who had not been sober enough to even notice his son was missing. It took three days after Jonathan’s last sighting for Mr. Lloyd to ring the police. The officer in charge suspected the boy ran away. _To a place he thought was safe._ Where had he thought was safe?

Hanna Vivier’s story rang similar. She spent more time away from school than in, and when she did attend, she occupied her time in various hideaways across the campus. All in all, the police did not suspect the two children to have been abducted. So why did Sallows?

Alex flipped through the first three reports again. He had to admit to being disappointed in the facts. Zoya’s, whilst including more investigative material, gave no suspects. It seemed the police threw up their hands once they had no more questions to ask, and when it came to Lloyd and Vivier, they quickly assumed that the kids had fled their unsatisfactory lives. Vivier had done so once before, so it made probable sense that she should do so again.

“Alex?”

Alex jolted. How long had been reading the police reports? Jack’s shadow passed under door hesitantly.

“Are you hungry? I was thinking of making fried rice, if you’re interested.” _And if you want to talk_.

“Yeah, er—” Alex shoved the papers in his hands roughly back into his bag. “I’ll be down in a second.” He swiped at the loose sheets that had managed to escape from the open pack. Regardless to their order and preservation, he kicked them under his bed in a flurry. Alex did not want Jack to decide he was taking too long and walk in to see why. Some documents resisted his efforts and stubbornly crumpled into a mess, catching on the cracks between the wood.

With an exasperated growl, Alex snatched them and intended to shove them with the others. But he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. Unlike the other documents he’d looked at, this was hand-written in Sallows’s easily identifiable script and simply listed a dozen or so names: Hans Aker, Karl Bannister, Timothée Beville, Inez Eyer, Tom Goehring, Jonathan Lloyd, Mai Selig, Leonardo Spagnuolo, Erke Vikhrov, Hanna Vivier… Near seven of them, two abbreviations: PLS - ECO.

Dinner was a silent affair. Jack determined that Alex was not willing to discuss the prospect of America any more than explaining where he was all day. By the time they had cooked, eaten in silence, and done the washing up, it was late into the evening, and Alex barely had the concentration to go over more of the files. After all, his desire to do anything productive plummeted when Jack none too gently reminded Alex that his maths tutor, Ms. Addario, would arrive at nine thirty the next morning.

Alex fished the documents out from under his bed only to replace them into his school bag, resolving to find out more about ECO after his tutoring session. He climbed under the covers and was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. Whatever he dreamt vanished with the rising sun.

* * *

Tom Harris lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in Chelsea. His townhouse sat in between two identical homes, indistinguishable from the floor plan to the worn brick that adorned the traditional English buildings. The only discerning feature were the personalized shrubbery that decorated the limited front yard and flower boxes that sat below the windows. As of the present, dead, scraggly twigs littered the flower boxes perched under the windows, Mrs. Harris either having forgotten to empty them before the weather became freezing or simply not caring enough to do anything with them. Tom’s bike was balanced to the side of the front stairs, the handlebar locked securely to the metal bannister. He was the only teenager on the block, which became one of the many reasons why Alex and he spent most of their leisure time together as kids. That, and Alex had had the profound insight to take on Tom’s childhood tormentors.

That sense of comfort and camaraderie is what brought Alex to his friend’s door once he was free from his maths tutor. It would have been easier to stay home and continue his perusal of the documents, but Jack’s incessant and hurt demeanor had quickly demolished that plan. So, Alex had collected anything he thought might be necessary and called out that he would be back for dinner before dashing out the door. Next thing he knew, Alex was standing at the base of his best mate’s house and glancing surreptitiously through the windows to see if anyone was home. A figure wandered past the living room window, and so he had no excuse to walk away.

He knocked. A minute later, a middle-aged woman with familiar black hair and bright blue eyes answered the door. She blinked at him once then seemed to finally recognize him.

“Alex, dear,” she smiled. Her young face had laughter lines, but the knowledge that Mrs. Harris spent more hours of the day raging at Mr. Harris sent conflicting messages. “Are you here for Tom? I doubt he’s awake yet, but feel free to go wake the lazy bum.”

Mrs. Harris led him inside, briefly waving in the direction of her son’s room despite Alex having been over countless number of times before. Alex jogged up the stairs and didn’t even hesitate in opening the door. They had long ago established an open-door policy; or rather Tom had assumed one when it came to the Rider household, something that had annoyed Ian to no end. Thinking back on it, Alex now understood why.

Owlish eyes blinked at him. Instead of suffocating underneath an unhealthy heap of blankets and pillows, Tom was sat on the carpeted floors, absolutely surrounded by stacks of crumpled clothes, trainers, and various belongings. A metal spoon hovered above the bowl of cereal in his hands.

“Owex?” Crumbs sputtered from his mouth, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. Tom swallowed.

Alex stared at the bowl. “Where’ve you been keeping the milk?”

“I’ve been too scared to go downstairs today.”

Alex slipped of his bag. The confession did not overly surprise him, although he doubted, he would ever truly understand how divorce affected Tom and Jerry. He kicked a pile of—what he was hoping were clean—clothes out of the way and plopped down next to his friend, his back reclining against the bed. “Has it been that bad today?”

Tom picked at a thread weaving out of the carpet. “It’s worse. They haven’t been fighting at all.” He shoved another spoonful of Crunchy Nuts into his mouth. “When they’re fighting, I know what’s happening, you know? Tearin’ into each other I can understand, but this—this silence?” He scowled. “Dad left a half an hour ago. No slamming doors or anything. It was all very…civil.”

Alex had nothing to say. He settled for bumping Tom’s shoulder to try and get a semblance of a smile. “Took your mum all of fifteen seconds to recognize me. Think that sets the record.”

Tom grinned. “She’s always been rubbish at faces, hasn’t she?” He eyed the backpack. “Don’t tell me you came to mine to actually study.”

Alex laughed. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought much about what he was going to tell Tom. His friend fell in a slightly different category than Jack when it came to MI6 business. Jack required protection from the details, from the horrid realities of organ harvesting or sugar-mill grinders. Tom saw Alex’s escapades as real-life materialization of James Bond adventures. And that was something that would get him killed in Alex’s world.

He’d hesitated too long. Tom snatched the bag before Alex had departed from his musings with a prepared explanation. He immediately found the crumpled papers and sorted through them, batting away Alex’s attempts to grab them back. His eyes roved the pages. Growing confusion flitted across his face, and he threw a look at Alex. “What’s all this?”

A lie had already formed on the tip of his tongue, but Alex couldn’t seem to choke it out. “Do you remember that bloke from two nights ago? The one that shoved by us on Britten Street?”

A desperate part of Alex _wanted_ to have help, but the rational part clawed through his brain, threatening to burn an image of Tom beaten and bloody into the backs of his eyes. The way Tom’s hands were holding onto the papers, crinkling and wrinkling the delicate pages, determined just how set he was in helping his friend.

At Tom’s halting nod, Alex continued. “I, er, Jack had the news on the morning after. I was barely watching, I almost missed it, but they showed his picture. I’d had this feeling that he’d been running from someone, and it turns out he’d been killed in his flat later that night.” A slight flush creeped up the sides of his neck, but he kept going. “I can’t really explain it, but something told me there was—that I had to check it out. So, I…I broke into his flat. I found his mobile wedged under the oven and a bunch of papers hidden away in his closet.”

“Let me get this straight,” Tom kept his gaze fixed on the documents in his hands. His voice was tight and restrained. “A random bloke runs us over, you find out he was then murdered, so you break into an active crime scene, steal a bunch of evidence, and take it to mine, where I’ve already spread my fingerprints and DNA _all over it_?”

Blood rushed to his ears and Alex bristled. He hadn’t _told_ Tom to rip into his bag. He hadn’t even intended to share all of it, but now that the other boy had framed his actions in such an idiotic manner, Alex couldn’t help but feel a ringing of embarrassment. He scrunched up his face like he’d smelt something unpleasant. “That about sums it up.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it to the police?”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Alex tugged at the hair on the back of his head and stared resolutely at his crossed legs. “There’s this feeling I can’t ignore. It’s like a…a wave of pressure in my chest. This annoying sensation that gets stronger more insistent the more I ignore it. Saying that whoever killed Hadley Sallows wanted him out of the way for something much worse than not wanting his dirty laundry out in the open.”

“Yeah, but,” Tom shifted awkwardly, “shouldn’t the police handle it? I just mean, it’s murder, right? It’s got nothing to do with national security. Last time you looked into something on your own, you ended up on a train with no shoes, no money, and a stint in hospital!

Alex’s face burned. “And what am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry that I broke into your crime scene, but look, I’ve found the bloke’s mobile for you’?” He tried to snatch back all the papers, but Tom dodged the attempt. Alex sat back on his knees and met his friend’s eyes. He hid the fear and pain when asking quietly, “Do you want me to leave? Cause I’m not going to stop looking into this.”

“’Course not,” Tom sighed. A grin colored his next words. “Besides it makes sense you’d bring it here, what with my expertise in such matters.”

Surprise flushed the blood from Alex’s cheeks. He stared owlishly at his friend.

“I’ve seen all the series of Criminal Minds, Bones, NCIS—the original, mind you, not those adrenaline-filled Los Angeles or New Orleans series,” he explained further. Tom attempted to force out the crinkles he’d made and set about scrutinizing the pages more carefully. “What do you think happened, then? Was it some disgruntled celebrity who didn’t want his deepest, darkest secrets revealed to the world?”

Alex was so surprised by Tom’s sudden acceptance of his decisions he didn’t respond right away. The relief he felt almost completely counteracted the uncomfortable pressure that had been building in his gut since the disagreement with Jack. He found, despite the possible of it all, a smile forcing itself into existence. He pointed to one of the groupings of documents on the floor, still disbelieving at the sudden change of mind.

“Sallows, a journalist, was investigating the disappearance of a couple of kids, two from England, and one from Wales. He seemed to think that they were all connected somehow.” Alex dug through it all until he found the list of names and offered it to Tom. “There are a few others—and I’m assuming all of these are names of missing kids from all over—that he’s connected too. Look, he’s written PLS - ECO next to a bunch of them.”

“PLS. Isn’t that, like, the military, abbreviated way of saying ‘place last seen’?”

Zoya Arain: Place Last Seen - ECO. Alex could have kissed him.

“That begs one question then: what or where is ECO?”

Sallows would have answered that without a doubt. The question would be whether he felt it pertinent to provide others with that knowledge. Alex was willing to bet all of Smithers gadgets that the information he was looking for would be in the rest of the files he’d stolen from the journalist’s flat. He reached over, nudging through the mess of files and documents from where they’d spilled to the floor. Some concerned what appeared to be laws pertaining to organizations and charities, filled with tiny print and impossible to understand official jargon; those Alex disregarded completely but narrowed in on one of the few packets that were stapled together. He held it up for Tom to see. It was a printed copy of website, black and white, but clearly legible at the top were the words Elysian Caritas Organization. ECO.

“’About Elysian Caritas Organization: ECO has dedicated over fifteen years to bettering the lives of those in need, providing community centers in seven different countries. Our hundreds of volunteers spend countless hours prepping meals for families struggling to make ends meet, ensuring that no child goes to bed hungry. Adrian Meyer, a native Berliner who experienced the struggle and pains of a torn city, understands the pain and embarrassment of asking for food and assistance, and so he has made it his life’s mission to create a safe place for parents to send their kids, to ask for help, to find the aid that is all too often lacking in larger cities…‘” Tom stopped reading. “So…it’s a charity then?”

Alex shrugged.

“Well, that’s not too bad. It’s probably that some psycho had been staking out the community centers and pounced on the first defenseless kid they came across.”

Again, Alex shrugged. In his own experience, the more benign and charitable a person or company appeared, the more wicked and deadly it turned out to be in reality. Herod Sayle, Damian Cray. They had approached society with lavish gifts and winning personalities, but a corrupt, hedonistic monster coiled underneath, ready to set the world ablaze. Except, those men had had vast fortunes to throw behind their dastardly plots. Somehow a charity, even a very successful one, needed substantial backing to pull anything off.

Alex flicked through the rest of the ‘about’ page, but Sallows hadn’t annotated anything more than underlining a few words here and there.

“Oi, James Bond, feel like sharing?”

“Sorry, it’s just I don’t think that’s it.” Alex nibbled at his nail. “I think they may have had more to do with it; I just don’t know how or why. Sallows obviously thought it was important that these kids were last seen at or around ECO locations. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. Not to mention, one guy staking out the community centers doesn’t explain how Akers disappeared from Russia, Beville from France, and Lloyd from Wales.”

Tom grudgingly nodded. “Was there anything useful on the bloke’s phone?”

Alex burrowed deep into his rucksack without looking. “It’s completely smashed, and password protected.” He found the object and offered it up. “I was actually hoping you may be able to get into it.”

Tom ran a finger over the shattered glass. More of the shards had fallen away, leaving behind a sandy residue. It was a definite health hazard and unsalvageable. After a few seconds, the phone came to life, once again prompting for the four-digit passcode. Tom grimaced.

“Sorry, mate. Even the rightful owner can’t get in without the passcode. Customer services would just offer to reset everything and wipe the data.” He laughed. “Maybe you could steal Sallows’s fingerprint or something. Sprinkle graphite on it and lift a thumbprint; it always works in the movies.”

Alex took back the phone. With no way of unlocking it, it was nothing more than expensive, shattered paperweight. Going to ECO’s London location seemed to be becoming the only option, after all. He glanced cursory at his watch and figured how much longer he could stay out without facing the wrath of Jack. Alex chewed at his fingernail again, feeling the slight sting when he ripped a hangnail. He hoped he would have enough time to go to the center, look around a bit, and make it back before dinner. Jack would _not_ appreciate him being late.

“You could always take it to that gadget guy at MI6,” Tom added. “You always make it sound like he likes you a lot. I bet he’d be willing to help, and they’ve got to have ways of getting into a locked phone.”

Alex did agree, but he had no intention of looping MI6 into the investigation until he had no other choice. His bitterness still throbbed when thinking about their reluctance to even lead an inquiry into Damian Cray.

“Yeah,” he replied, knowing Tom was waiting for some kind of response. “But I’m going to ECO first, to see what I can find out. Who knows, maybe I don’t even need what’s on the mobile.”

Alex snatched up his bag and stuffed the papers once more into the pockets. He vaguely thought about asking for a sandwich before he left, but he could always grab something on the way. Already he was designing possible routes and potential methods of getting inside. If they functioned as a community or charitable center, then they would not hesitate to give shelter to a youth in need, especially with the freezing temperatures outside. The challenge would be to gain access to the more restricted areas, which were almost guaranteed to store the information Alex needed.

His hand landed on the doorknob to Tom’s door, when Alex heard his friend stumbling around behind him, almost as if he were getting dressed to come with.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with obviously,” Tom responded pointedly. He sniffed at a shirt and shrugged.

“No, you’re not.”

Tom glared fiercely. He looked like an angry kitten. “I helped you in Venice, didn’t I”

“That was different.” Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of just _how_ it was different. “This could be dangerous. We have no idea how they’re taking the kids.”

“Oh, but you can handle it on your own?”

“Yes!”

Tom shook his head. He no longer seemed angry. He looked sad. “Why do you think you always have to do everything on your own?”

“You looking for the angsty teen response?” Alex grinned unconvincingly. He shuffled his feet and huffed. “I don’t know. It’s just how I was trained.”

"That still doesn't mean you have to do it all alone."

* * *

It took some convincing, but Alex arrived at ECO London alone. The center was larger than what he had imagined: a convention center turned office park set in the middle of a city block. The entire ground floor, decorated with expansive floor-to-ceiling glass windows, had been transformed into lounge on one side, a lobby in the center, and a kitchen complete with a dining area to the other. A long circular desk laid before the entrance of a hallway. Multiple workstations for volunteers outfitted the reception desk, although only two were currently in use. Every now and again, a phone rang, only to be answered cheerfully by one of the volunteers.

A few employees wandered the lobby floor, carrying a clipboard or undertaking some other official-looking task. They slipped behind the desk and left through a side door that revealed the location of the main staircase. A handful of teenagers were sprawled out in the massive, plush sofas in the lounge, whilst the younger ones were goofing off on the floor in a corner. TVs with game systems, billiard and foosball tables, and shelves filled with books of all genres filled the space. A mouth-watering smell wafted from the kitchen area, but only two people sat at the tables provided.

As soon as Alex set foot inside, one of the volunteers behind the desk smiled up at him. The man, probably in his mid-twenties, approached him with a slight swagger. He, like the other employees and volunteers, wore the same white polos and khaki pants, the same blindingly fake smile. Alex had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“Hey, mate!” he obviously spent a lot of time around the younger generation but had yet to grasp how to actually communicate with them. “What’s the craic?”

Alex adopted an insecure stance, tucking his shoulders and shifting his feet, but maintained a defensive glare in his eyes. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothin’.” He switched into a rougher accent, less precise than his native Sloaney-speak.

The man, Jeremy according to his nametag, nodded, quirking an eyebrow. “Needed a place to lay low? Stay warm, maybe get a sandwich and a brew?”

Alex scowled minutely but didn’t want to oversell his reluctance. ECO was unlikely to send away a hungry fourteen-year-old, but they may have regulations about trouble-starters. He stared at his feet and nodded.

A hand fell on his shoulder and steered him towards the other teenagers. “I think we can figure something out,” Jeremy said kindly, if a little airily. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, and I’ll find you sandwich. Hey, you lot—be nice, yeah?” Jeremy jokingly glared at each of the lounging teens and clapped Alex on the back, before disappearing off to the kitchen.

Alex almost felt guilty at how nice Jeremy seemed to be, but then the witch fattened up Hansel and Gretel before tricking them into the oven. He faced the openly staring group coolly. He couldn’t be the one to make the first move.

Finally, the girl, who appeared to be the oldest, smiled smally and waved. “You can sit down if you want.”

Alex nodded but simply perched himself on the armrest of the nearest chair. He hoped Jeremy would be back with his sandwich soon—to save him from the awkwardness, but also because Alex was suddenly keenly aware that he had skipped lunch. The other kids had apparently decided that the new arrival was no longer of any interest and returned to their prior conversation, leaving him to glance around and search for a way to look around.

Jeremy was out of view—how long did it take to make a sandwich? —which left only one employee left in the lobby. A young woman clicked away at the keyboard, her head propped up in her palm. This continued long enough that Alex was sure either nothing was going to happen, or Jeremy would return, and he would lose any chance at sneaking behind the desk. But then she stood up and jogged to the front door, stepping outside to catch someone’s attention.

Alex restrained himself from leaping off of the armrest. Instead, he rose and strut towards the main desk with no care in the world. To the kids in the lounge, it would look like he had grown impatient and decided to head toward the kitchen.

A little faster now, he ducked down the hallway and allowed himself to look behind him. He was alone.

Three doors littered the hallway, and Alex tested the handle of the first one he came across. Locked. He jogged to the next one and tried again. It opened soundlessly. Alex slipped in, shutting the door behind him. The room was a basic office, fitted with a few filing cabinets, a plain wooden desk, and an ancient looking computer. That was all he needed. He took one step toward the desk.

The office door opened. Within a blink of an eye, the newcomer had snatched Alex’s wrist, the grip agonizingly tight. The man snarled as he spoke.

“Who are you?”

“I—I,” his stutter was fake, but the unease was real. 

“What are you doing in here?” He tightened his grip.

“I was just looking ‘round. I didn’ mean it.” Panic broke into his voice. He tugged on his wrist in a pathetic attempt to get the man to let go. In reality, he was testing the strength of the grip. Thinking up how to avoid a confrontation that would undoubtedly cause a scene. “The other kids dared me to!”

The man was pulling Alex closer now, which inadvertently brought both of them closer to the exit. All Alex had to do was release his wrist and escape the room before the man had a more compromising hold.

A scream came from the other side of the door. Something heavy and solid exploded, followed by even more yelling, from multiple sources and louder than before.

Taken by surprise, the man glanced over his shoulder, and Alex reacted. Leveling his thumb towards the opening gap between the man’s thumb and forefinger, he wrenched his arm. A simple movement, but effective. Alex brought his leg up and launched the man with a frontal kick, using him as a springboard of sorts.

He was out of the room and down the hall before the man regained his breath.

Alex distantly heard yelling behind him, but he kept running, reaching the lobby within seconds. The sight that greeted him caught him by surprise, but it was a welcome one.

Tom, his absolutely amazing best mate, stood in the middle of the atrium, tussling with one of the teenagers from the lounge. Water pooled everywhere. Jeremy laid on his back, his nose bloody. The other kids were off to the side, cheering. An empty bubbler container rolled to a stop against the main desk.

Barely slowing his pace, Alex drove into the other boy and snatched Tom’s sleeve. They launched into the glass doors, and suddenly they were surrounded by winter air.

Without any more prompting from Alex, the two boys flew down the pavement. Enraged calls followed them, telling them to slow down, to watch where they were going, but they didn’t listen. Their trainers pounded harshly. Their lungs burned from the cold air. Sweat tracked down their backs. But they couldn’t stop. More cries chased after them. One person didn’t move fast enough, and Tom clipped him on the shoulder. Shops passed in a blur. They didn’t care where they were running.

One glance over his shoulder told Alex that a very large man was keeping pace with them, even close to gaining on the two boys. His height served as a horrid advantage, despite both Alex and Tom being two of the fastest players on the football team.

Alex latched onto Tom’s jacket. He tugged once. He looked left. He lunged across the lanes of traffic. A taxi screeched and honked, a cooper swerving to avoid the cabby. Alex bumped the hood, but Tom and he survived to the other side unscathed. The driver stuck his head out of the window and cussed.

The ECO henchman attempted to follow them across the road, but a blazing lorry horn prevented another mad dash.

With a meager reprieve, Tom and Alex slowed their pace enough to catch sight of the street names. Hornton Street.

“I have an idea,” Alex gasped. “Follow me.”

He resumed his faster pace, taking the lead, winding down a few more blocks until he saw a massive red brick building. He tore into the courtyard, where he slowed down and signaled for Tom to do the same. Alex led them to the main door of Kensington Central Library, taking care not to make a sound. The librarian glanced up once with an evaluating glare. She raised an eye at the boys puffing for air, red in the face, sweat tracking down their temples.

Alex smiled and dipped his head politely. He nodded his head to Tom. The other boy followed wordlessly, not even questioning when his friend ducked behind one of the stacks. Alex put a finger to his lips and shifted _The Great Mortality_ by Kohn Kelly so he could see the entrance to the library. He tried to control his breathing and the frantic beat of his heart. The thumping jolted with every uneven breath, the adrenaline sending tremors through his limbs. Beside him, Tom was similarly quaking, although he seemed to slow with every passing second. A quick sideways glance confirmed Alex’s suspicion; his friend’s eyes drooped slightly, but the jolt of tired muscles woke him back up almost immediately. As soon as adrenaline started to fade, fatigue was never far behind.

“Do you see him?” Tom hissed.

Alex shook his head.

Tom collapsed to the floor and carded his hands through his sweaty black hair. He huffed a laugh. “That was bloody _unbelievable_!” He actually grinned. The toothy grin combined with the adrenaline-fueled glint and fevered red cheeks, he looked certifiably insane. His breath still rattled unevenly.

Alex nodded and followed the example of toppling to the floor. His limbs ached. “How,” he croaked and tried to swallow away the dryness. “How did you know I’d got caught?”

Tom blinked owlishly. “I didn’t.” He seemed to be sharing the problem of being parched. “I followed you obviously, saw you sneak into that back hallway, then this large bloke went not long after. Reckoned, even if you weren’t in trouble, a little raucous might help.” Tom grinned deviously, but the expression slipped away as quickly as it had come. “If they sent that Jason Voorhees wannabe after us, does that mean they’re stealing kids?”

“I think so.” Alex pulled to his feet and fought to ignore the screaming discomfort in his legs. He really shouldn’t have sat down that long without stretching out the muscles. “Jason Voorhees?”

“Yeah…you know. The killer from _Friday the Thirteenth_? Did you not see how the guy ran? He looked like a lumbering gorilla.”

“A bloody fast lumbering gorilla.”

Alex once again took the lead in finding an alternative exit from the library. Even though Jason Voorhees had not burst into the library, it did not mean that he hadn’t followed them and was waiting for them to leave unsuspectingly. They slipped out the side emergency exit, and Alex watched after every corner for a consistent face. Luckily, they continued back towards Chelsea unhindered.

Tom remained uncharacteristically quiet all the way to his. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, occasionally sending glances at Alex but never voicing what was bothering him. It took until they were standing in front of his house, key in the door, for him to stare Alex straight in the face.

“I’m flying to Naples in two days.”

“I remember.”

Tom nodded. “Mum and dad have been divvying up the hours I have left in England. Acting like I’m never coming back at that,” he added darkly, then shook his head. “What I’m trying to say, is that I can’t really help you anymore. And before you say you don’t need help, you do—today proved that. And if you refuse to acknowledge that or do anything about it, I am telling you right now: screw mum and dad. Let’s go solve a murder.”

Alex wanted to smile or joke. Pressure had been building in the back of his throat, and he didn’t think he could say anything sarcastic—for once in his life—without the dam breaking. “I guess,” he muttered grudgingly, rubbing the back of his head, “looking into this alone was not the best of plans.”

He didn’t have to look at Tom to know that he was smirking.

“Promise you won’t go off alone?”

Alex met Tom’s eyes. “I promise.”

* * *

Alex walked slowly back to his house.

He may lie when working for MI6, but he never lied—about anything serious, that is—to his friends. He’d promised Tom that he would get help, but his list of allies was worryingly short. His list of _capable_ allies was terrifyingly shorter.

Alex did not trust MI6, Blunt, or Mrs. Jones, so there was no way in hell he would ask them for backup. Wolf, the SAS agent he had trained with at Brecon Beacons and later met during the Point Blanc mission, had the physical expertise, and he and Alex had reached some kind of agreement after the initial distrust and unfriendliness. Alex wondered if that truce would extend to conducting an illegal investigation. He could picture the nasty sneer and condescending voice that had tormented him for ten whole days.

Then there was Smithers. He always provided Alex with life-saving gadgets, some of which had the potential to be used as ‘aggressive’ self-defense when Blunt and Jones refused to provide him with actual weapons. And, like Tom said, Smithers did seem to have a genuine liking for Alex, but the man was obscenely obese. Aside from providing useful tools, he would be of no use in the field.

He could not involve Jack, nor did he want her involved.

The last person he could fathom asking for help was Ben Daniels. Ben was as physically capable as Wolf and had the mental capacity to work for MI6 on assignment. They had worked well together in Australia, Ben saving Alex’s life twice in the process. He might be willing to help, if Alex asked, but there were a few problems. Just like with Wolf, Alex had no way of contacting him, and the last he had seen of the SAS soldier, he’d been bleeding out on the floor of an oil rig—after dealing deadly blows to Alex’s godfather. Would he blame him for the injury?

Alex made his decision and reached his front door.


	4. To Let You Face Trouble Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place after Snakehead and before Crocodile Tears.
> 
> Also to clarify for any needs for trigger warnings: there will NOT be any underage/rape/sexual assault of any kind. Unfortunately, when kids go missing, this is one of the most common causes, so it is spoken about, but the mastermind plot is NOT to do with it but rather something else.
> 
> R&R

The Royal & General Bank was the same as it was when Alex had first laid eyes on it. The antique building was well-maintained, a union jack fluttering above the fifteenth floor, unassuming civilians parading before the entrance without a care in the world. None of them glanced twice at the grey building, for as far as they were concerned, it was an ordinary bank. It helped that MI6 had commandeered a fully functional bank to begin with—or they had established one after the fact. Glass, reinforced doors reflected the outside world almost mockingly; the organization inside anything but normal and ordinary.

Alex hesitated once inside. It was similarly inconspicuous, though not many clients ever wandered inside. The expansive, cold entrance hall echoed with every step, every whisper. The same expensive leather sofa leaned against the far wall, still empty and pristine. A young woman sat behind the glass reception desk, and he realized unpleasantly that he recognized the face: brunette, thick rimmed and bulky-lensed glasses, pinched lips. She had been there the last time Alex had come to the bank without a summons. She had also been the one to deny the existence of MI6 Special Operations headquarters and used security to send him and Sabina on their way.

“Brilliant,” he grumbled and wandered up to the front desk.

Alex swore he saw a flicker of recognition, and annoyance, flit across her face, but within a second she had tamed her expression into a friendly, business-like smile. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Smithers.”

“Smithers…is that a surname or…?”

Alex stared coolly and leaned against the desk with nonchalance he didn’t have. “Just Smithers.”

“I apologize, but I don’t believe anyone by the name _Smithers_ works here. Perhaps you’ve mistaken us for another bank.” Her eyes roved to the older security officer who was stationed across the hall. She definitely remembered Alex’s frantic and livid attempts at reaching Mrs. Jones the last time.

His glare met her hesitant eyes. He was not at all surprised; he had been expecting some amount of resistance, and it only served to solidify his own reservations for asking for help.

Alex drummed his fingers against the glass desk, calculating his chances at success if he made a mad dash for the lift. It didn’t bode well for anyone involved.

The phone rang, and the receptionist breathed a sigh of relief for a distraction.

“Royal & General Bank, how may I help you?” A pause. Her eyes flicked to the boy in front of her. Another pause. “Of course.” Replacing the receiver, she smiled sweetly, grinding her teeth. “Smithers will see you know. If you could make your way to the lift, I will send you down to his office straight away.”

The lift dinged behind her.

Alex wanted to demand who had been on the other end of the call, but then a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered something about looking a gift horse in the mouth. He settled for boarding the lift and smirking victoriously as the doors slid shut. He just hoped his victory didn’t end with a face-to-face with Mrs. Jones.

But no one was waiting for him when he arrived on the sub-level. For an underground floor, it was surprisingly homey. Bright lights trailed the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the entire hall. It smelled faintly of popcorn.

Alex followed the aroma and was led to Smithers’s main laboratory, a vast open room with worktables, machinery, and gadgets filling every available space. The far wall was piled high with charred motherboards and torn metal shards, gadgets that had met their end too early. Smithers himself was currently intently immersed on a minuscule project, his swollen hands fiddling under a magnifying lamp, his face centimeters from the glass. He didn’t react as the boy approached. His fingers deftly constructed the casing and welded the tiny coils. Alex couldn’t help but be surprised that Smithers was physically able to work on such delicate, intricate wiring. Thin trails of smoke drifted upwards. A brilliant spark shot out and singed the metal table.

Smithers finally looked up from his project and smiled jovially. “Alex, my dear boy!” He rubbed at his hands with a soiled rag, smudging the skin with more black grease instead of cleaning it. “How’ve you been keeping? I must say I am surprised—pleasantly so but surprised nonetheless—that you would call on me.”

“I’ve been well,” Alex replied pleasantly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the newest invention. “And yourself?”

The gadget-man threw the grease-stained rag over the trinket with a smile. He spun on the stool, and the metal groaned in protest. “Oh, I can’t complain,” he replied but grimaced. “I was sorry to hear how the Snakehead operation ended. Bad business, that. I was pained to hear what you went through.” Smithers fixed Alex with a look, unreadable and unwavering. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to comfort the boy but didn’t quite know how.

Alex shrugged uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure so he wanted to talk about it. “Er—why does everything smell like popcorn?”

“I’ve found the smell often accompanies the making of such a snack," Smithers answered amusedly. "I would off some, but I may have finished it off already.”

He hobbled to his feet and gestured for Alex to follow him further into the lab. He wobbled over to a sofa that had once been upholstered in a light tan fabric, but after years of exploding devices and oil or soot coated hands, it looked like an art-student’s end-of-year project. The obese man collapsed heavily onto one side and indicated Alex should do the same.

A worried crease gathered between Smithers’s eyes. “Now, I assume you have not come all the way down to my little foundry to ask about the smell of popcorn. I must admit I’m glad it isn’t at Mrs. Jones’s behest.”

“…not at Mrs. Jones’s behest, but…” This felt like the discussion with Tom all over again. Alex rubbed at the nape of his neck before extracting the broken mobile phone that was primarily the reason for visiting Smithers. “I have been looking into something on my own, and, well, I’ve had a bit of a setback. I need to get into this phone, but it’s password protected.”

Smithers took the device.

“I’ve been investigating the death of this journalist—Hadley Sallows—and I think it might be connected to something _worse_.” He explained everything from the initial encounter with Sallows to the flat to the charity organization, without going too deep into the gritty details. To his credit, Smithers nodded on occasion, but his face remained impassive.

A strange feeling of nausea settled at the base of Alex’s stomach as he waited for some kind of reaction from the older man. He picked at his abused nails.

“I can’t say I’m not—disappointed that you would choose to get involved in this,” Smithers said finally. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to let this go?”

Alex shook his head. “But, my friend made me promise that I wouldn’t do this alone.”

“Smart friend, him.” Smithers sighed, and, with great effort, rose once again to his feet and lumbered through the labyrinth of workbenches where a computer stood on the one desk designed for an actual office. He connected the mobile with one of the many cables sprawled about and tapped in a series of commands, pausing when a loading bar appeared and vanished within seconds. Sallows’s mobile glowed. The generic home page occupied the screen.

Smithers returned the device but, when Alex took hold of it, held it fast. “I am doing this because you, no doubt, would find a way in even without my help. Though through much more…illegal, and potentially dangerous, means.” He released the phone. “But I do not think my bypassing the passcode is the type of help your friend had in mind.”

Alex flicked through the home screen absentmindedly. Once he asked Smithers his second request, his path was set. The older man would undoubtedly force his way into the know, whether that was through CCTV cameras, tracking the boy’s GPS, or something along those lines. Alex had made a promise, though, and one he meant to keep.

“Would you be able to get me an address? For an SAS soldier: Ben Daniels. I worked with him in Australia when he was seconded by MI6.”

“My dear old chap, are you suggesting I break into secure military personnel files and give out private details?” The mischievous spark Alex had first associated with the gadget-maker gleamed brilliantly. Barely a moment later, a hand-written note detailing the address of one Benjamin Daniels was firmly pressed into Alex’s hands with a wink. “I hear he’ll be nearing the end of his physiotherapy soon. And as far as I know, Daniels is headed back to his old unit in the SAS. Not for the lack of trying by Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones.”

“Thanks, Smithers.”

The older man waved away the gratitude and turned away, although not before Alex saw a faint cherry red creeping across his face. Smithers teetered away, shuffling around various objects on a nearby table. He moved to the neighboring one and tried searching there. “Now where did…”

The words were too quiet for Alex to make out, and he wasn’t sure if he should offer to help look. Where Smithers was involved, things tended to explode. Alex’s chest fluttered with a child’s excitement. _Gadgets_.

“Ah, here we are!”

Smithers brandished his fat arm proudly. He hobbled back to Alex and offered one of the two items in his hand. It was a black Tissot T-Touch, one of the best and most durable sport watches of the year. Coated in titanium, fitted with twenty different features—altimeter, compass, weather forecast—and solar rechargeable. Alex slid it on immediately. “It functions much as the last one did, with one or two improvements. Specifically, regarding the battery. Once you activate the emergency beacon, little less than a nuclear explosion would prevent the GPS from transmitting your location.”

Neither of them voiced what was going through their minds, just why that amendment was necessary. The stabbing anger behind Alex’s eyes was enough of a reminder.

Smithers handed over the second item. It was a coin, slightly bigger than two pound and completely silver. On one side was a man’s head and the word ‘liberty,’ on the other, a giant bird grasping an olive branch and scroll. A quarter.

“This twenty-five cent coin functions as an EMP. Simply rest it against whatever you are trying to disable for five seconds, and it will need a good jump start to ever work again. Now, it’s not quite powerful enough to take out an entire building, but it would certainly do the trick for a lorry, a single story flat, and so on.”

Alex made sure to put the coin in a different pocket from his mobile. That was the last thing he needed: to fry his only way to call for help and waste a particularly useful gadget. He smiled at Smithers.

“Thank you. Truly.”

Smithers cleared his throat and shuffled his way once more through the cluttered room, leading Alex back towards the lift. He clapped him once on the shoulder and steered him inside.

“Be safe, my boy.”

* * *

The door, Alex decided, was mocking him. The simple white door stood before him, taunting him, compelling him to knock and face the man inside. A few times, Alex raised his fist with the intention of knocking, but both times, with surprising, vehemence, he shoved both hands deep into his hoody pockets. Nothing—no lights or sounds or shifting shadows—suggested that Ben was even at home. Nevertheless, Alex couldn’t bring himself to check for certain.

The last he had seen the soldier, Ben had been prone on the floor, unconscious in an ever-growing puddle of his own blood. MI6 had whisked the young spy away without so much as a word as to the man’s condition. It wasn’t until the debrief that Blunt revealed that Ben had survived. Guilt and frustration simmered below the surface. Guilty that the man had been charged with ensuring Alex survived no matter what, and frustration that the man had burst into the room and put himself in the line of fire so recklessly—not that Alex hadn’t done the same countless number of times before.

But he didn’t blame or hate Ben for being the one to kill Ash.

The horror Alex felt when he thought of even _thanking_ him was nearly catastrophic and painful.

Gnawing on his lip, he shook his head. Alex turned to walk away, intending to come back another day—maybe—and saw a familiar figure strutting towards him, his gaze set on the jangling key ring in his hands. A bag, filled to the brim with groceries, threatened to spill out of his arms. As soon as Ben glanced up, he stopped short with an incredulous expression.

“Alex?”

Alex waved.

Immediately, Ben broke into a smile. “I should be surprised,” he began, fitting the proper key into the door and walking in, “but running into you in unexpected places seems to be the norm. Least we’re in our home country this time.”

Alex cautiously stepped over the threshold. It seemed like an invasion of sorts, like he was about to see something he shouldn’t. After all, Ben had first been a soldier at Brecon Beacons then a spy in Bangkok. Both places were kept separate from Ben as an individual, but this place—this was the man’s home, an extension of who he really was, when not working as a cog in a machine or masquerading as someone else entirely.

The flat was small and simple. Modest. Alex decided maybe it wasn’t so different from the man he knew.

Ben had placed his bag on the kitchen counter and glanced at the boy in between putting the groceries in their proper places. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“Smithers,” Alex blurted out. “He gave me your address.” He rubbed the back of his head. He just felt awkward at this point, and Ben’s amused staring was doing nothing to assuage that. “I’m, er, sorry that I didn’t come see you in hospital. Mrs. Jones was pretty adamant about getting me back on British soil as quickly as possible.”

Ben shrugged. That was the first moment Alex realized that there was no sling or restriction of movement. The wound, while serious due to blood loss, didn’t appear to have done any permanent damage.

“I reckoned that was the case. Glad to see you made it back in one piece.”

Alex nodded absently. He was absolutely fine, if discounting the nightmares, throwing himself into danger every chance he got, and just generally having no clue how, and maybe no desire, to return to a normal teenage life.

A cup of tea suddenly appeared in front of him. Ben reclined against the kitchen counter, still regarding him in the amused, questioning manner. “So are you going to make me ask why Smithers gave you my address, or…”

Alex shrugged and sipped the tea. It scalded his throat pleasantly. “He thought you could help me with a project I’m working on.”

“What sort of project?”

“The sort that involves getting chased across London by a charity’s evil henchman.”

Ben sipped his tea. “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

So, for the third time in only two days, Alex found himself explaining Hadley Sallows’s investigation. The summary contained more specifics than the one Alex had given to Smithers, from descriptions to all the important characters involved to the layout of ECO headquarters, and concluded with the chase through London that ultimately forced him to search out reinforcement. Ben, throughout the explanation, had barely even twitched. Occasionally, his eyes drifted to the floor, of to the side, the movement people often do as if trying to contemplate possibilities.

When Alex fell silent, Ben placed his mug into the sink scrubbed at his eyes. “You’re a strange kid, you know.”

Alex bristled.

“Why do you even want to get involved in this?”

Alex didn’t have an answer. He set down his tea with more force than necessary, holding back the guilty flinch when the porcelain resounded with a sharp _ding_. “Never mind. Forget I even asked.” He turned to leave. It wasn’t like he even wanted help to begin with. He was doing perfectly fine on his own.

“Cub, relax. It was just a question.”

Alex heard a sigh and the clunk of a second coffee cup making its way into the sink. An exasperate voice came from behind him, “before you go off sulking, can you just tell me what you wanted from me? What you’re hoping to get out of this?”

Alex returned to the kitchen, the faint burning in his face the only indicator of embarrassment over his childish response. He dug into his back pocket for Sallows’s phone and held it up. “Smithers helped me get inside. Didn’t really give me anything new—except that the guy was really into shawarma—” Alex unlocked the mobile and pulled up the one thing that had caught his attention. A handful of candid photos taken in some car park at night. Most of them were horrible quality, half of them off focus or blurred, but two at least focused on four men with surprising clarity. “But I did find this. I want to go back and look around, but—it didn’t exactly go well last time.”

Ben took the phone and scrutinized the first photograph. He pointedly schooled his expression, but the minute pinching at the corner of his lips and the forced ease in his stance betrayed him. “And ECO is the charity you broke into?” The question didn’t require an answer; Ben already knew. He dragged another hand over his face. “Alex—”

“I’m not stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. All I was _going_ to say, is we should take this to MI6—”

“No!”

Ben swiped through the phone again until he found the photo library and shoved the evidence in Alex’s face. “Alex, the men in this photo are Bratva. Russian mafia.” He zoomed in on one of the men, magnifying his hand. Clear against the man’s pale skin was a black tattoo, inked letters atop his wrist: мир. World. “This, this stands for ‘menya ispravit rasstrel’—only execution will fix me. They’re _killers_.”

“Yeah, I got that bit, when I found out they _killed_ Hadley Sallows!”

Ben growled and glowered. The muscle in his jaw convulsed. Alex met the glare evenly, challengingly. Ben may have the advantage in years, but Alex could out-stubborn the most murderous of masterminds. Many have tried and failed, and he’d be damned if a Liverpudlian fox would beat him at his own game. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Ben ground out.

Alex almost cheered in victory.

“But—” the triumph dimmed, “—I have two conditions, or I take this to MI6.” Ben held up two digits and began counting down, his eyes fiercely locking onto Alex’s. “You do not do _anything_ without me or my say so. No more breaking into flats, no sneaking into possible criminal headquarters, no taunting henchmen into chasing you around the city.” He waited for Alex to nod grudgingly.

“And?”

“And you agree to taking this MI6 if I deem it too big for the two of us to handle on our own.”

Alex considered it. The whole investigation had begun with the murder of one man and quickly become a conspiracy of kidnappings and international criminal organizations. If the missing kids stood any chance at being found alive, eventually Alex would have had to bring everything to Blunt and Jones. He couldn’t put innocent lives at risk because of his pride and resentment.

Alex nodded. “Okay.”

The tension immediately seeped out of Ben’s frame. He breathed easily. “Okay. I know you probably want to get started right away, but we need to take a moment. Look at everything with a new set of eyes. I have a friend in MI5; she specializes in Eastern European matters in London, and I can see what she knows about local Bratva activities.”

As he was talking, Alex slipped off his bag and set the Sallows files, which he had taken to carrying with him everywhere, on the counter. Already, the pressure behind his eyes, the same strain that continued to build when he was on mission, began to ebb. He hadn’t thought that gaining Ben’s help would change anything, but hope and, dare he say, certainty that they would find the missing children flickered through his mind.

“I can’t do anything tonight, anyways. I’ve physio appointment to make sure I’m still on track to return to the SAS.”

Alex’s eyes involuntarily found the place where the bullet had torn through Ben’s shoulder.

He saw Alex looking and rolled the joint with barely any stiffness and gave a small smile. “It was a through-and-through. Bled a hell of a lot, but barely any real damage.” It was meant to be reassuring.

Alex nodded. “Tomorrow then?”

* * *

_Alex was standing in a pool of ebony waters. There was nothing around him. No source of light. No sense of movement. And yet, Alex felt cold shivers coursing down his back._

_“Hello?” He almost expected echoes to clamor back at him, but the sound vanished as quickly as it appeared._

_Gasping sobs came from somewhere ahead of him. The voice wheezed and sniffled. “I want to go home.” It was small, feminine, and terrified. “I just want to go home.”_

_Alex raced forward into the darkness. He had to find Zoya. He didn’t know how he knew it was her. He just knew he had to find her before it was too late._

_There was nothing in front of him but murk and frost._

_Zoya screamed— “Ammi!” —and Alex ran faster. The black water latched onto his trainers, pulling him deeper into its embrace, and he fought to wade through it._

_“Vas-tu me trouver?”A boy, younger than Alex, sat on the ground. His chestnut curls fell in his eyes and emphasized just how young he actually was. “Tu as dit que tu le ferais.”_

_“I’m trying,” Alex asserted. “But I don’t know where you are.”_

_Timothée scowled. “Tu es trop tard. Je suis déjà perdu.” Blood slipped down his face. One crimson tear at first, then a rivulet seeping from the corner of his mouth. He coughed and more blood coursed freely. “Et tout est de ta faute.”_

Help! Please! _Screams. Sobs_. Spasi menya! _Wailing._ Sie tun uns weh, bitte—kann ich nicht mehr aushalten. _They echoed all around him. Alex spun in terror, his hands gripping at his ears to block out the torment. The ink climbed past his knees, to his waist, to his chest. Alex was drowning._

_He gasped for breath._

_The water was crushing him._

_He couldn’t breathe in. He was going to suffocate. A rasping, final breath rushed into his lungs. “—t’trouverai!” I promise. The oily depths crawled up his neck and took him into its deadly embrace._

His eyes ripped open; his body writhed. The normally comforting duvet felt as if it were smothering him, trying to snatch away his breath, even though he was certain that there wasn’t one to steal. The blankets and sheets encased him relentlessly. The more he struggled to break free, the tighter it wrapped around him. With a violent tug, Alex escaped.

The cool air barely soothed the nausea that had set in, but it was welcome, nonetheless. Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre… Gradually, eventually, Alex regained the capability to take in a full gulp of air and release it without wheezing.

That was unpleasant, he thought, and then huffed. Unpleasant barely even covered the feel of the inky water let alone the rest of it.

He glanced at the clock on his bedstand. Seven twenty-three. Jack wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours—she had progressively begun to sleep later and later over the years. Ever since Alex learned to wake himself up for school, she began to reclaim her leisurely mornings from her undergraduate days. A quiet morning to himself did sound nice, the more he thought of it.

Treading into the kitchen, shaking loose water from his hair, Alex set about making a pot of coffee and pouring a healthy-sized bowl of cereal. Then, with his laptop before him and a steaming mug in his hand, he began perusing every news site he could find. BBC, Tagesschau, Le Monde, Gazeta. All of them reported basic everyday news and wintery weather of their respective countries. Democrats in America were calling for more gun control while their opposition insisted rifles in schools would protect schools against armed intruders, and in England, conservative members of the public were attacking Meghan Markle for another royal faux pas. World-class judo wrestler Tato Grigalashvii claimed another trophy in Georgia. Russian scientists found a fully intact wolf head from 32,000 years ago. It seemed, however, that there weren’t any new kidnappings. Or, at least, none that anyone noticed.

Jack padded into the kitchen with a yawn, “mo’nin’.”

“Coffee’s in the pot.”

On her way to the coffee, she tried to peek at the computer screen, but Alex flicked it to some nonsense piece titled “Doing His Part: Kensington Man Spends Weekends Shushing Teens At The Cinema.” Jack snorted but didn’t comment. Instead, she deeply inhaled the rich, enticing aroma and sighed. It seemed at least she had gotten a relaxing night of sleep.

“So, what’s the plan for today? Anything fun?”

Alex hesitated. What could he say that wasn’t a complete lie? “Think I’ll give Tom a ring. Play some football or something.”

“Really,” she questioned, “’cause I ran into Mrs. Harris at the supermarket yesterday, and she said Tom was flying out to Naples today.”

Alex shrugged, frowning slightly. “Oh. Guess I forgot. Maybe I’ll head to a coffee shop to get some coursework out of the way, then.” He shut the laptop and thrummed his fingers against the casing. “What about you? Going to give that bloke—George? —a ring?”

She didn’t rise to the bait and looked at him skeptically. He could nearly see the cogs turning in her head as she tried to work through a way to confirm her suspicions. She actually looked faintly annoyed. Finally, she asked, “has the bank contacted you? Is that why you’ve been acting all weird these past few days?”

“I haven’t been—”

“Yes, you have been,” she affirmed forcefully. “Is this all because I suggested going to D.C. for a few days? What’s going on with you?”

Alex felt guilt burn his throat. He really couldn’t bring himself to lie, but he also couldn’t see her allowing him to continue his investigation. “No, the bank hasn’t instigated any contact,” he responded. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. The words still tasted rotten in his mouth.

She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I just want things to go back to normal, you know?”

No, he didn’t. That was the problem. Alex swallowed roughly and nodded. He couldn’t stay there anymore, not when he was lying to Jack, whether directly or by omission. Mutely, he gathered his things—anything that might be of use for what Ben had in mind for the night’s endeavors—and shoved them into his school bag. He tried to offer her a smile.

“I’ll be back later, yeah?”

“Alex—"

But he was already out the door. He was halfway to the nearest Tube station, when he realized he had left his winter jacket and he was absolutely freezing. A fine mist set across the city in tandem with its characteristic fog, forcing Alex to hug his hoodie closer around him and breathe into his hands to get some semblance of warmth. When he reached the station, the thick material was already soaked through to his skin.

By the time he arrived at Ben’s door, his whole body was trembling. It occurred to him too late how awkward it was, him turning up without warning—twice in two days, at that. And it would be truly unfortunate, if it turned out that Ben was out for the morning. What if he had company? What if—

Alex raised a shaking fist and knocked.

Thirty seconds later, the door swung open to reveal Ben, toweling his hair dry. A faint crackling came from the kitchen, the smell of eggs wafting into the hall.

“Alex?” he gaped. Taking one look at the drenched hoodie and shivering boy, he ushered him inside and closed the door behind them. “What are you doing here? And why are you soaked?”

“Sorry, I know it’s early…”

Ben led the way to the kitchen, where there was, indeed, a pan of eggs on the stove. The soldier automatically set the kettle to boil, grabbing an extra mug from the cupboard. He nudged the eggs and threw a worried glance towards Alex, who had edged awkwardly into the room and lent against the table along the wall. He handed over a mug of searing hot tea.

“Is everything okay?”

Alex nodded and chewed on his lower lip. “Didn’t much want to stay at home,” he admitted. “And my best mate’s already left to go visit his brother.”

Ben accepted the answer silently. “Do you want food or anything?” he asked as he shoveled the scramble onto a plate. “I’ve got eggs, toast and jam, makings for a sandwich…”

“No. Thanks. I’ve already eaten.”

“Right.” Ben sat at the table and awkwardly dug into his breakfast. Alex sat opposite him and gradually stopped shivering. It helped that he had slipped off his wet hoodie at some point, though all he wore underneath was a thin jumper.

They endured in awkward silence for what felt like forever. Alex wasn’t sure if Ben was usually laconic or if it was because the man was not used to being around teenagers. He surely hadn’t talked much when they had been training in Wales, and there wasn’t a lot of time for mindless chatter in Bangkok. It made Alex realize just how little he actually knew about Ben Daniels.

He gazed around the room for some sense of who the man was. Whoever he was, he didn’t care for many personal touches or extraneous belongings. The kitchen opened into a lounging room, with a sofa and television on the far side. A fair number of books filled the built-in shelves and a handful of pictures had been hung on the wall, but it seemed that was the extent of Ben’s personality. One unhappy looking plant stood on the windowsill, curling towards the glass as it searched for a better patch of sunlight.

“—been?”

Alex’s attention snapped back. “What?”

Ben grinned and asked again. “How have you been? How is everything? Life, school, friends, _girl_ friends? I can’t imagine your entire life revolves around solving random crimes you read about online.”

“That’s true. I usually find them just walking down the street,” he smirked into his tea, “and promptly drop them onto police headquarters.”

Ben looked torn between confusion of what Alex meant and suspicion that he was actually serious. He settled for grinning and shaking his head in disbelief. “So?”

Alex cleared his throat. “Everything’s—fine. My best mate just left to go visit his brother, so…” he pointedly didn’t mention that his best mate was also his only real mate after all the weirdness of this past year. His thoughts wandered to Sabina and the fleeting time she had spent in London at the end of November, to the more-than-friends kiss they’d shared. What were they to one another? “No girlfriend to speak of.”

“How about school?”

Alex shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “Fine, I guess. My year is taking the GCSEs this Spring, so it’s mostly prep and review.” He drew his finger around the rim of his mug, grimacing as if remembering something unpleasant.

“And they’re okay with you missing all those days in November?”

The question made him squirm. His grimace set further into face, and he refused to meet Ben’s eyes.

Ben tried another question. “Do your parents know what you were doing in Australia?”

“They—died, when I was a baby.” A pause. “But my guardian knows. She knows about everything—except this.” Alex waved a hand vaguely towards Ben and the pile of files in the center of the table.

“Is that why you ran out of the house this morning without so much as a mac?”

“I don’t want to lie to her.” He downed the rest of his tea and shook himself free of the gloom. “So,” he started readily, “we’re looking into ECO tonight, right? We’re going to have to figure out a better plan than last time. Running halfway across London being chased by an angry Russian isn’t as fun as it sounds.”

Ben chuckled slightly and scrubbed at his hair. “Alex,” he hesitated, apparently unsure of how to frame his thoughts. “I want you to be prepared for what we might find…” The man worried at a dark stain on the table, shifting to clasp his mug with both hands. “Cases with kids—especially if they’ve been missing for weeks—don’t often end well. Whatever ECO wants with them,” he exhaled roughly. “It’s going to be rough.”

“All the more reason to find them.”

Ben stared at him inscrutably. If he had been expecting a different response, he didn’t let it show. He nodded. “Alright,” he said, “we’ll head out at six; see what security is like and go from there. Though with your luck, you’ll probably be spending the evening in air vents trying to escape a hoard of radioactive mice.”

He ruffled Alex’s hair on the way to the sink, laughing as the boy ducked and swatted the hand away.

* * *

Kyra Vashenko-Chao hid her hands deeper in the pockets of her jacket. This time of night, the temperature was easily -17 degrees Celsius. Her breath sank heavily in the air, a clearly visible cloud of white and grey. The lights from the Summer Garden barely illuminated the pavement under her feet, but she preferred it that way. She could max out the volume of her music and just imagine something completely different.

Saint Petersburg was devoid of life. People tended to know better than to stroll along the Neva when it was this cold. Kyra’s face burned. Even with the extra layers she had forced under the jacket, she could feel the tendrils of frostbite creeping up the tips of her fingers, on the tip of her nose. But the pain was better than being back at the hotel with her parents.

They had rented the junior imperial suite at the State Hermitage Museum Hotel, whilst they themselves took the imperial suite. Not that there hadn’t been enough room for her in the multi-storied lodging. _To give you your own space_ , they’d said. More so they wouldn’t have to see her. They had made reservations at Palkin, which meant that if Kyra wanted to attend, she would have to dress nicely and wash away the filth, what her mother referred to her makeup as, from her face.

And so, she had stared frostily at her parents and pointedly slipped in her headphones. Somehow, she had found herself along the riverbank, basking in the biting breeze. She didn’t hate her parents—they were all she had—but it felt like they were always disappointed with who she turned out to be. So, she removed herself from the equation and found respite in her music and computer.

Kyra buried her face deeper into her hood. She leant over the stone bannister to glance at the Neva and saw a surface of pure ice. Sometime in the past few days, someone had cleared a large patch to go skating. The white tracks almost glowed in contrast to the rest of the untarnished ice.

She traced the cracks that littered the barrier and glanced back toward where she’d walked from. Someone else had wandered down to the riverbank and was staring towards the other side. From this distance, the figure could be a man or a woman. The enormous coat obscured any kind of shape. A group of drunken men stumbled out from a side street, yelling and cheering unintelligibly. One fell to the ground and took out another by the knees, which only served to send the others into noxious howls of laughter.

Kyra scowled.

She turned back to the river and startled. The figure had moved; instead of standing at the start of the Prachechnyy Most, they were nearly at the first entrance of the Gardens, about nine meters from where Kyra reclined against the barrier. They still stared out towards the Peter and Paul Fortress on the opposite embankment.

Kyra removed her headphones and glanced around. The drunken party had moved on. Only she and the figure were on the Palace Embankment.

Suddenly, she didn’t prefer the darkened street.

Unease fluttering in the back of her mind, Kyra trudged toward Troitskii Bridge. It was the opposite direction from her hotel, but the extra few minutes were worth putting some distance between her and the disquieting figure.

Paranoia whispered that they were following, and Kyra walked a little faster. Her breath came faster. The biting air tore at her throat. She started to jog, nearly running now. Kyra tried to look behind her, knocking her hood away angrily, her breath catching at the sight of the shadowy form, and she collided with something solid.

Hands snatched at her jacket. She slashed out, driving nails into any exposed flesh she could find. Pain erupted behind her eyes. Her vision fell to black.

* * *

Translations and Transliterations:

Ammi! = Mama, mom, mum, mommy (Urdu)

Vas-tu me trouver? = Are you going to find me (French)

Tu as dit que tu le ferais. = You said you would (French)

Tu es trop tard. Je suis déjà perdu. = It's too late. I'm already lost (French)

Et tout est de ta faute. = It's all your fault (French)

Спаси меня = Spas **i** men **ya**! = save me (Russian)

Sie tun uns weh, bitte—kann ich nicht mehr aushalten. = They're hurting us, please--I can't hold on anymore (German)

—t’trouverai! = je te trouverai = I will find you (French)

Меня исправит расстрел = men **ya** ispr **a** vit rasstr **e** l = only execution (shooting) will fix me (Russian)


	5. Skill against Skill Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to add my own experience in studying krav maga to the fight scene, so I hope it was fun to read. I know they can be tedious to read sometimes if they are too descriptive.  
> Almost done with the first half of the story, so we will be leaving London soon!  
> As always, reviews and comments are lovely
> 
> Classes just started up again, so I may be slower in publishing new chapters, but I have the whole thing outlined and have every intention on finishing it  
> Some people have been asking about the show vs the books, and as answer this story is mostly based off the books but with some character influence from the shows. Kyra is a nod toward the show. She is a great character, so I decided to try and include her (there will be slight differences to fit the story though).
> 
> warning: language and violence

The street was bustling with even more activity than the past few days. The weather had improved greatly since the morning, rising a few degrees to make a stroll through the streets at least tolerable. More than a few families with little kids meandered past each of the storefronts, hot chocolate and coffee grasped tightly in stiff hands. Some of the parents had given up corralling the wayward children and made do with calling warnings about the dangers of passing cars. At least one rammed into an elderly couple who stood admiring the hustle and bustle of the plaza.

Two individuals leisurely ambled through the crowds. Between decorative lighting and winter apparel, they melded with the throng of people with ease, not warranting a second thought. To everyone else, they were two brothers shopping for the upcoming holiday. The taller of the pair, however, furtively examined the faces of every passerby. If anyone so much as looked twice, the mission would be over before it began. The other kept an eye on the shops, waiting for one in particular.

Alex deftly avoided trampling one of the rampant small children in favor of stumbling into someone taller and sturdier. The stranger gave a harrumph and continued on their way without so much as a backward glance; the girl giggled and skipped back to her father.

Alex righted himself and tried once again to unearth his hands from the mass of fabric concealing them. Before going out, Ben had insisted on giving the boy a jacket so he wouldn’t freeze, but it had resulted in an oversized blanket that reached just above his knees and swallowed his hands. Ben had cackled at the sight. It wasn’t fair; Alex wasn’t _that_ sort and, in fact, was exactly average height for his age.

Halfway down the promenade, the familiar glass doors came into view, a faint glow broadcasting the fact that someone was still inside. Alex fought the urge to tug his hat further down over his fair hair. With the jacket shrouding his actual size and hat concealing the majority of his head, there was no reason to believe anyone in the area would recognize without getting close. Not to mention, only a few ECO employees had seen him in person, and only for a few minutes.

Alex nudged Ben.

The man nodded. He took in the rest of the street, looking just like a tourist, and grinned. “You hungry?” he asked, indicating with his head.

A new Indian restaurant was situated across the street, a few doors down from their target. Its windowed front allowed for a perfect vantage point, far enough away that security cameras or suspicious employees wouldn’t catch a glimpse of them but close enough that they would see any activity in the front of the lobby.

Without waiting for an answer, Ben set off towards Masala Dheli. The inside was muggy from the number of patrons in such a small space, but in a homely way. The smell of turmeric, cumin, and coriander had long since seeped into the walls, new aromas drifting from the ever-revolving door as more and more dishes were sent out of the kitchen. Voices ricocheted and amplified as everyone clamored to hear their dinner partners.

Alex’s mouth watered the minute he stepped inside. Ben communicated with the hostess, mainly through sign language, as he insistently pointed toward a window table, still full of used dishes and cutlery. The young woman shrugged and handed him two menus, clearing the table herself and flagging down a waiter.

He dropped off a pair of water glasses and a set of clean dishes and dashed away within seconds. Only one other server was working in the floor, and both never stayed in one spot for long before a new task demanded their attention.

Ben settled himself down with a menu, already perusing it with a grin. Alex sat down opposite and shrugged off the mountainous coat. The restaurant was so toasty he had begun to overheat. The waiter returned ten minutes later with a basket of papadum. He held his notepad expectantly.

Alex watched bemusedly as Ben ordered a few dishes for the two of them, when it became obvious Alex wasn’t about to do it himself. As a second thought, he ordered a couple lassis as well.

“I thought teenagers were always supposed to be hungry,” he mused, dipping a lentil cracker into the brown imli chutney. “I certainly was at your age.”

Alex elected not to point out he never actually told the man his age. He nibbled at a cracker of his own and found the hollow hunger deepen. He was starving now that he tasted food, but the prospect of fighting and running around full of heavy Indian food already induced a round of nausea.

Ben seemed to understand and gestured to the spread. “Might as well relax and dig in. We can’t go bursting in the moment the last employee leaves. This is as much a waiting game as an infiltration.” He made his point by taking a large gulp of his lassi. “Besides. If they’re as paranoid as you make them seem, there’s bound to be a security guard or two.”

Alex agreed. “Jason for one.” He hadn’t realized he said it loud enough to be heard until he saw Ben’s bemused expression.

“Who?”

Before he had the chance to answer, the waiter returned with their drinks. The tall glasses held a viscous frothy liquid, one a greyish white, the other a soft orange. Alex sipped his experimentally and grinned. Mango. He took a larger gulp and savored the sour sweetness.

“The other day, when my mate and I got chased by the guy from ECO—Tom’s a big movie buff, and he said the bloke reminded him of that psycho from the ‘Friday the thirteenth’ movie.”

“The one with the hockey mask?”

Alex nodded and smirked. “All shoulders and neck, looks awkward and uncoordinated, but is surprisingly fast. It just kind of stuck.”

Ben laughed and sipped at his own yogurt beverage. “I much preferred the psychological thrillers myself. ‘Silence of the Lambs,’ ‘Black Swan,’ ‘Sixth Sense,’ and the like.”

The waiter returned once again, this time laden with the entirety of their order: garlic naan bread, tikka masala, palak paneer, and another dish Alex couldn’t identify. It all smelled and looked heavenly. Without a second thought towards mixing food with athletics, Alex spooned a taste of everything onto his plate and took an experimental bite. It tasted as better than he’d expected. Apparently, his enjoyment was plain on his face.

Ben laughed and dug into his own food with an agreeing sigh of contentment. “Are you a big fan of horror films?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“Not as much as Tom. But every Halloween he comes round to mine, and him, me and Jack have a marathon of all the classics.” Alex grinned. “Jack absolutely _hates_ jump-scares but insists on watching with us, so _we_ don’t get scared. Tom’s tried pointing out that gingers never die in the films, so she has nothing to be worried about, but I find it more helpful to just warn her before the murderer jumps out of the closet. That way, I feel slightly less guilty doing a few jump-scares of my own.”

“How kind of you,” Ben remarked, shaking his head. “Jack’s your guardian, then?”

“I’ve known her since I was eight,” Alex confirmed. “My uncle traveled a lot, so he needed someone to help out around the house. She’s more of a big sister than anything.” Normally, he would have hesitated before sharing details about his life. But for some reason, he felt himself at ease in Ben’s company. Maybe because Ben was the first to actually show up in time when Alex called for help.

“My dad travelled a lot too,” Ben said suddenly. “He was a translator for a legal firm. Spent a lot of time in France and Spain.”

Alex listened in silence, wondering if Ben was experiencing the same sense of trust that Alex was and that was the reason for the sudden divulgence.

“My mum runs a restaurant with her sister. Best meat pies in Liverpool,” he added wistfully. He cleared the rest of his plate with a slice of naan, then stretched back and regarded Alex with a hint of amusement. “She wanted me to take over the business at first, but—as it turns out—I’m a rubbish cook.”

Alex gave him lopsided grin. “So, you decided to join the army? Reckoned it was near impossible to ruin rations?”

Ben returned the smirk. “So, I went to university for linguistics. But I always knew I wanted to enlist. And as I’m sure you recall, if Eagle’s on meal prep, it is entirely possible to make rations inedible.”

“I remember that slop the mess hall served was enough to destroy even the memory of real food. You can’t blame Eagle for falling victim to that.” Alex thought about the unbearable ten days filled with taunts, glares, and hostile silence. Then again, maybe you could blame him for that.

The waiter returned and cleared the table. Ben ordered a coffee for himself, whilst Alex was content with the last of his mango lassi and water. They waited in silence, or what constituted as silence in the deafening ambience.

“Can I ask why?” Ben was watching him with the same evaluating expression as the other day.

Alex didn’t need to ask, ‘why what,’ —why Alex wasn’t leaving this to the police. He shrugged. “I’m not really sure why.”

He stared across the street. Although it was late in the evening now, it was still full of people wandering from shop to shop and admiring the front displays. ECO was no longer the only one to have turned off the lights and closed down for the day. The lamination from the other locations shadowed a number of windows and created a checkered line for as long as Alex could see.

Ben didn’t press the question and simply sipped at his coffee. The two sat in companionable silence until they both had finished and digested. Ben dropped a few notes onto the check and motioned to leave. It was quarter to nine. ECO had been dark lifeless for fort minutes already, and there were no signs of a security officer making rounds.

From what Alex remembered of his first visit, there were no exterior cameras, only a few inside that covered the majority of the floor plan. The security control panel hung on the wall, not too far from the door so that an employee would be able to disable the alarm before it goes off. The front door had an average lock, or at least one that nearly every other shop used. There was no hint of wires or electronic sensor; ECO most likely assumed no one would be stupid enough to try and rob a charity—or break into a place associated with the Bratva.

They walked up casually to the front doors, standing to the side as if trying to get out of the way of other pedestrians. Ben adjusted his scarf and hat, his eyes searching for a CCTV they might have missed.

“You sure you can handle the security system?”

Alex nodded. He rummaged through the pockets of his oversized jacket instead of correcting that he _most likely_ could handle the system. Smithers had told him the coin would be able to handle a single-story flat, and all Alex wanted to take out was a single security device. Most systems, unless there was a backup installed, would go out alongside the power and only alert the police once it was back online. In theory, at least.

That only left the front lock, which was something Ian had taught him by the time he was eight. He’d given Alex a set of lockpicks and entertained his young nephew for months by randomly locking doors around the house. By the time Alex was eleven, there was rarely a door he couldn’t unlock given the right tools.

ECO’s lock posed no challenge, and wordlessly Alex fiddled with the levers until the tumblers fell into place. The moment the latch opened, the panel on the wall flashed its first warning. Alex wasted no time in fishing out the quarter and laying it against the electronic. The whole system flashed, the screen blurring and twisting with static, and then everything fell to black.

They waited. Nothing changed.

Alex grinned. _Thank you, Smithers._ He motioned for Ben to follow and made his way slowly across the lobby. Without the artificial bulbs humming in the ceiling and meager daylight streaming in through the windows, the entrance hall felt macabre and lifeless. Even the scant cheer of the identical volunteers hadn’t left an imprint on the place. Alex navigated the same hallway he had only two days prior, taking the time to unlock the offices he had been unable to access before.

Ben and Alex alternated in checking doors, careful to listen for any sort of movement or source of light that would signal a guard’s presence. They crept along in darkness, using their hands to guide them from one room to the next; once inside, they allowed themselves to view the contents with a small torch. The building consisted mainly of offices and meeting rooms, that probably functioned as community event spaces. Some had more personal touches, photos on the walls and desks, a few books and plants, but nothing that suggested a high position in the organization. Before long, they had covered all of the offices on the first floor with nothing to show for it.

They tried again on the second floor, finding an identical layout to the first. Doors littered both sides of the hallway, completely bathed in shadows. Exiting from the stairwell, they waited again for a sign of a guard, but when none appeared, Alex unlocked the first door. Instead of the expected desk and office chair, the room was filled with metal rails and file cabinets, complete with storage boxes and external data servers. A desk stood off to the side riddled boxes and papers, an old monitor resting in the center. Grinning in triumph, Alex tugged his accomplice in behind him and shut the door.

As Alex headed straight for the computer, Ben took the torch to inspect the labeled boxes.

The computer chimed and glowed blindingly in the pitch-black room. Alex froze, holding his breath because, with his luck, the entire building heard the telltale powering-up sound. The screen glowed blue, and no one came bursting into the room. The only sound was a faint shuffling as Ben leafed through various accounts and records and receipts. He removed a few pages and moved on to the next collection, wasting no time in between.

The desktop was littered with various folders, each one filled with more files and archives in a seemingly endless rabbit hole of records and documents. Alex disregarded more than half after a quick perusal; schedules of events and employee timesheets composed one file, a list of construction projects and drives in another. ECO was a charity organization that was known to host food drives, community fundraisers, and the like. Even with an illegal side business, they likely dedicated enormous amounts of pounds and hours to their philanthropic affairs.

Other files held spreadsheets filled with—presumably—budgets, international and domestic taxes, daily expenditures and rent, and other monetary numbers. Alex deciphered some of the information, drawing on the phrases he’d learned from Ian’s ‘work’. Some column titles were simply numbers and abbreviations that held no meaning to a teenager. What he did easily comprehend, was the large number of zeroes listed under those columns.

“Be—"

Alex choked back the word as a track of light danced under the storeroom door. Muffled steps followed not long after. Security—with only one torchlight, and the scuffing of two languid steps, it sounded like there was only guard. He looked to Ben, his heart jolting with an influx of adrenaline. The man shook his head, visible even in the meager light, and made a motion to stay completely still.

The steps continued to traverse the hall. Because of the grainy carpet, Alex couldn’t tell if they were getting closer or farther away; the only thing he knew for certain now was that it was only one guard. If the man decided to check inside, the two of them would outnumber him. Alex was prepared to spring at the door if that was the case.

The torchlight stopped its searching movement. Alex’s breath hitched. The glow swung under the door and vanished. The footsteps retreated. It grew silent. Alex released his breath.

Ben replaced the last of the files even more silently and cautiously than before and slipped over to the desk. He scanned the screen briefly, but his expression gave nothing away, except a slight twitch between his eyes. Alex wasn’t sure if that particular tell meant confusion or restrained suspicion.

He scrolled further down the pages, scanning the numbers and waiting for any reaction from Ben that would signal that they had found something worthwhile. He traced a row that specified the dates of monetary transfer and focused on the significant payments. The largest was for thousands of pounds, but the recipient was the British government—a culmination of taxes, rent, and fees for the entire fiscal year. Other smaller payments of around eight thousand pounds were spaced out roughly by a few weeks. 28 August, 13 September, 25 September. Each payment went to the same company: Istraflot.

Alex read the dates again. Why did they sound familiar? He hadn’t been in the country at the time, so it wasn’t something he experienced personally. Unless it was to do with Scorpia—but even then, he had barely paid attention to the passing time. If it was related to Zoya Arain, she disappeared on the 22nd of September…and Jonathon Lloyd had “runaway” on the 10th, Hannah Vivier on the 25th.

They were payments confirming a job well done. Alex took a picture with his phone and turned to Ben—

The storeroom door burst open.

Alex felt the scowl slip across his face. The intruder was even uglier up close. Jason Voorhees, the thug who had pursued the two boys for city blocks and who had earned the movie villain moniker, sneered back from the doorway. Tom’s comparison of a gorilla was bizarrely accurate, with the man’s solid, round shoulders, broad abdominal muscles that bulged out from behind his shirt. His movements were inelegant and stiff, built for power, not grace or speed. Two friends of equal sized and aptitude stood on either side of him. Jason took in the two intruders with a simple, lazy glance, and the sneer transformed into a smile.

Alex took back his earlier thought. The man was even uglier when he smiled.

The three took a step forward into the room, just as Alex and Ben took a step back. The security—who were no doubt Bratva associates, if the tattoos were anything to go by—moved slowly and indifferently, their hands loose at their sides. Either they were unarmed or believed guns were unnecessary to overwhelm the two intruders. Or it would take away from the fun of beating us with their bare hands, Alex thought shrewdly.

He felt the rush of hormones coursing through his bloodstream, preparing him for a fight. Unlike before, when the guard had almost walked in on them, the thrill of adrenaline slowed his thoughts, calmed him. His breath quickened, but he wasn’t afraid. Ben was an SAS soldier, skilled enough to be requisitioned by MI6 for a high-risk operation; he could handle himself in a fight, no doubt.

The three men spread out, encroaching on the little open space there was.

Alex sidled to edge of the table and waited. Whilst he was confident in his and Ben’s ability to fight back, that didn’t mean that they were at a disadvantage. The three henchmen were massive and carried themselves as if they had proper hand-to-hand training, and Ben had been shot three weeks ago. The best strategy would be a distraction followed by a surprise strike—limit the possible immediate reactions and slow their defenses. His eyes found a small cardboard box of recycled paper rested on the far corner of the desk. Perfect.

“Sorry,” Alex said, hedging forward another step, “my friend and I are a bit lost.”

Ben shot him an incredulous glare. Jason and his friends paused.

Alex made it to the desk, his hand just centimeters from his target. He turned to Ben, said, “I told you this wasn’t Buckingham Palace,” and launched the papers into the air.

Loose sheets and torn pieces of confetti rained down on them, and Alex lunged at the one closest to him—Jason.

The man took a lumbering swing, striking with the top of his fist and drawing downwards. Alex ducked underneath and delivered strikes of his own. Left, right, an elbow to the solar plexus. He dashed away as his opponent countered with a fierce blow that sent the air whistling past his ear.

He kept his arms up and out, protecting his head, ready to deflect and defend like he’d been taught. The giant of a man was powerful, but Alex was smaller and faster.

Whatever style this man had been taught was brutal, meant to deal such a blow that their opponent could not possibly fight back. His ready stance was reminiscent of a boxer, back curled slightly, arms tucked neatly against the abdomen so as to absorb any strike. The offensive movements were exact and leaden but somehow still as quick as a scorpion’s tail. A fist went sailing towards Alex’s chest. He redirected most of the force, but the skin of forearms ached and pulsed from the contact.

In the background, Alex was vaguely aware of grunts and fists-meeting-flesh, but it was as if, the world had turned black and homed in on the one immediate danger he faced. Jason was advancing with an expression that could only be described as predatory. He showed no indication that Alex had even touched him.

Jason pushed forward, lashing out with those same odd, monstrous strikes. He targeted Alex’s chest and diaphragm—points that could prove fatal with enough strength. Alex raced in, striking with more desperation, targeting what should have been universally vulnerable, but his opponent’s body simply absorbed them. He might as well be hitting a statue.

The back of a fist caught Alex under the jaw. Speckles of light distorted his vision, and suddenly a wall crashed into his side. Alex thrashed out, trying desperately to hit something without aiming. His jaw ached and pulsed.

A thick hand wrapped around his throat and pressed him, agonizingly, deeper into the wall. Alex gripped the wrist, instinctively, desperately. A constant ring echoed in his ears. His fingers gouged into the skin, coloring it with white scratches and speckles of blood. Jason’s other arm was drawing back for a devastating blow—

Alex braced himself against the wall and kicked out, a clear target in mind. His aim was true. The arch of his foot caught his attacker’s knee at the place, where the ligament secured the bones. The man crumbled, howling; his leg bent under him at an unnatural angle. Alex, no longer pinned against the wall, latched onto Jason’s head and thrust his knee upwards.

Jason collapsed to the ground, a quaking breath the only indication he was not dead. Such a strike was one of the many reasons Krav Maga was considered among the most brutal self-defenses.

Alex couldn’t bring himself to look at the damage.

He sought out Ben and felt tiring relief that he was still standing. The taller of the two thugs laid on the ground, unconscious. The other was advancing towards the SAS soldier, whose hand grasped at his shoulder, breathing heavy. Despite this, Ben stood at the ready, balancing on the balls of his feet, his free hand outstretched in guard position.

The minute Ben fainted an attack, Alex lunged. He drove a fist, with as much force he could muster, into the right side of the thug’s abdomen, just below the ribcage, right where the liver sat. The reaction was immediate. The man curled to his side, driving his elbow to the wounded area, fully having the intention of continuing the fight. He spun but continued on his downward spiral. Even the most seasoned fighter couldn’t resist the body’s inherent instinct to protect its vital organs. He slumped to the floor. Surprise marred his face as he tried to comprehend what had happened. Then, Ben delivered a final strike to the temple, and his eyes rolled back.

Suddenly, the room was still.

Alex panted as he glanced around the storeroom. Three large, unconscious bodies covered the floor like dystopian human-skin rugs. Blood still coursed freely from Jason’s shattered nose. The scrap paper Alex had thrown laid haphazardly all around, an entire row of boxes had been knocked over at some point, and nearly everything was left in some state of disarray. Ben was breathing laboriously. His other hand still clasped at his shoulder, at the wound that had healed fully on the outside but not yet entirely on the inside. Other than a growing red mark under his eye, he seemed remarkably unharmed.

Ben grabbed Alex’s shoulder briefly. “You all right?” His eyes drifted over the boy’s face before landing on the crumpled form of Jason. As soon as Alex gave a small nod, Ben began rummaging through the unconscious man’s pockets, removing an old, shabby wallet and mobile. The ID certainly didn’t appear English, or like it was from any country Alex had even been to, but Ben had taken it and slid it into his own pocket so quickly, he’d barely seen a glimpse. The soldier continued sifting through the wallet and then onto the mobile, jamming a finger onto the home button to unlock it.

Alex took in the sight of the three men on the ground. None of them appeared to be security guards, and there had been only one set of footsteps earlier. How had they known where to find Alex and Ben? He voiced the question but got only a distracted hum in response.

Ben pocketed the mobile as well and rubbed at his face, taking in the mess around them for the first time. “We should go, before our friends come to.”

Alex hesitated but knew that was the wisest option. They had new leads to follow up, and if it turned out that ECO had more to offer, they could always return with MI6 firepower. Alex took the lead in making sure the hallway was clear. It was as dark and lifeless as it was when they had first walked through. Going back the way they’d come, Alex, with Ben taking up the rear, guided them down the stairs and into the foyer. If they hadn’t just fought three men, Alex wouldn’t have thought anything had changed since they broke in half an hour ago.

They made it halfway across, when they were spotted.

“Oi! Stop!” A new man dressed as a typical security guard stumbled in from behind. Compared to the three thugs upstairs, the man was laughably unthreatening.

“Not likely,” Alex grumbled.

Ben growled and burst into a run, dragging Alex out of the lobby and onto the street. A few straggling pedestrians leapt out of the way with a surprised cry. Others turned to stare at the sudden commotion, hesitating when a security officer emerged from the building in pursuit. The two alleged criminals moved so swiftly, so without hesitation, they were gone before onlookers even contemplated intercepting them.

The night air instantly bit into Alex’s skin, the chill burning in his lungs as he gulped air greedily. After the intensity of a fight and the beginning ebb of adrenaline, he found it difficult to keep pace with Ben’s longer legs, but he refused to slow. Alex put on a burst of speed and ignored the growing stitch in his side. They ran north, then west, down side streets and across pedestrian crossings, when, finally, Ben slowed down to a hurried walk.

“I—” Alex panted. His head throbbed with every heartbeat. “I don’t—see anyone.”

Ben didn’t stop or comment. His eyes landed on a silver Ford Fiesta parked off the side of the side road, exactly where he had left it hours before. _Thank God_. Ben had fished out his keys, unlocked the doors, and geared it to drive within seconds. The car shot off into the night.

Darkened shop windows, groups of pedestrians and tourists, and beaming headlights blurred into one. The consistent click of the turn signal set the pace for Alex’s heartbeat, the controlled gasps coming from Ben reassuring as they both fought to ease their breaths. Alex faced the rear window for the first five minutes. If anyone was tailing them, it would be painfully obvious at this time at night, but being careless could get them killed. So, he watched and mentally took note of any cars that stayed behind them after two turns.

Despite the stress and danger of the night, Alex found himself grinning. They actually did it. They broke into ECO and found potential evidence that they had paid someone to kidnap children.

Ben caught the maniacal look and huffed a laugh himself. “Buckingham Palace? Really?”

“I’ve found it helps if people are constantly underestimating you. Plus, it really pisses them off.”

“Noted.” Ben signaled another turn but kept straight. “Alex…I think we should take this to MI6.”

Alex had expected that. As soon as Ben had identified the Bratva tattoo, it was only a matter of time before the investigation reached an international level. MI6 had the resources and intelligence to follow ECO’s Bratva connections and find out just how the new organization Istraflot fits in.

Alex hummed in agreement. He took out his phone, re-enabling his alerts—something he had done after telling Jack that he would be out late with a friend. It took a few seconds before the device chimed repeatedly. The sudden alerts caught Ben’s attention, but he elected not to say anything, simply adopting a concerned expression.

Alex had multiple unread messages from Jack. _“Where are you? It’s getting late.” “Alex?” “Alex, I’m getting worried. Can you just text me back?”_ He cursed. He hadn’t wanted to make her worry—he really hadn’t—but in trying to keep her out of it all, Alex had just made it that much worse. It was only around ten o’clock at night and he was on holiday, but clearly his actions the past few days had been too suspicious.

“Alex? What’s wrong?” Ben was shooting him worried glances in between trying to keep an eye on the road.

Alex knew it was time to tell more than just Mrs. Jones and Mr. Blunt. He heaved a sigh, promising to tell Jack the entire truth. “Nothing,” he answered. “Would you mind—could you drive me to my house? In Chelsea.”

Ben didn’t question it and immediately signaled for the correct turn. The ride fell silent, save for the muted hum of the car and click of the signal. Ben rubbed at his shoulder discreetly and occasionally looked over at Alex, who was resting his forehead against the cool glass window. It helped a little with the drumming and pressure building there. After the rush of adrenaline and sudden quiet of the drive, the soft hum of the engine lulled him into a light sleep.

The Ford pulled to a stop, and Alex blinked awake. The thrum in his head still pounded fiercely, his jaw stiff and tender to the touch. Although it had only been a glancing blow, already Alex knew it would be a mix of dark colors in the morning. And, there would be no hiding it from Jack. Jack. Guilt did not begin to cover how he felt.

Not able to put off going inside any longer, Alex exited the car. He swayed once or twice but managed to reach the front door without falling on his face, in part thanks to Ben following not far behind. The blow to the head in itself wasn’t so serious, but with everything of the day, it pushed Alex just over the edge. He was exhausted.

Under the light above the front door, Ben caught Alex’s chin, tilting it up to examine the boy’s eyes then to the side to take in the reddening skin. He winced in sympathy.

“You don’t look concussed, but you’re going to have some spectacular bruising tomorrow. How’s your head?”

“Hurts.”

Ben nodded. “Any nausea or disorientation?”

Alex shook his head but wished he hadn’t. Luckily, the action didn’t send the world into a spinning mess, but it didn’t do his headache any favors. He motioned at Ben. “Your shoulder alright?”

The man’s hand unconsciously rubbed at the old wound. “It’ll be fine. My therapist won’t be too pleased though.” He gently prodded Alex toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

The entrance was dark inside, but a bright glow from the kitchen provided enough light to see by. A constant flickering of colors and shadows emanated from the tellie in the adjoined lounge. There was no sound coming from anywhere in the house, but Alex had no doubt that Jack had stayed awake. He kicked off his shoes, dimly aware that Ben had followed him inside.

“Alex?” Jack’s soft voice drifted in from the kitchen. “That you?”

Her figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the light. Her feelings, countenance, and thoughts were completely masked by the shadows cast on her face, but Alex knew she was not going to be happy the moment she could see him in full. Something prodded him in the back and forced him to enter the house proper. He kept his head down to delay the inevitable.

“Where have you been?”

Alex stepped into the kitchen and saw the dishes from a dinner haphazardly thrown together from leftovers. A medical drama played on the tellie, close captions reading along the bottom of the screen. Jack is watching him expectantly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get so late—"

“What happened to your face?”

Soft hands grabbed his chin, forceful yet gentle. Jack tilted his head, taking the same care Ben had just a minute ago, except there was worry brimmed with anger in her eyes. She prodded the tender skin, eliciting a slight hiss from Alex as she did so. Jack examined the rest of him for any other injury. She poked and prodded, and Alex let her, knowing she needed to make sure he was okay, but drew the line when the ministrations were getting a little hostile.

“Alex,” she crossed her arms, “ _what_ _happened_?”

Alex tried to swallow past the rock in his throat. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t drive her to fury. He didn’t regret investigating ECO, but remorse had weaseled its way in and reared its ugly head over how he’d been treating her. He opened his mouth to respond, but just then, Jack remembered they weren’t the only two in the room. Her eyes landed on Ben, who had silently entered the room. Alex reckoned the soldier wanted to ensure he was actually okay.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, sliding over the beginning of the bruises on his face as well. “Who are you?”

Ben cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “Ben Daniels. Alex’s, er,” he fumbled for a way to explain how he knew Alex, but Jack had already made her assumptions.

She walked right up to the soldier and hissed, “He’s _fourteen_!” Her fists were clenched, and Alex was nearly certain she would throw a punch—if she were one to express herself physically. Ben’s eyes went wide, and he held up his hands.

“Why can’t you lot just _leave him alone?_ ”

Alex jumped between them, his own hands up in a pacifying gesture. “Jack, wait. He’s not from the bank, or rather he doesn’t work for them. I’ve been looking into something on my own…and I asked Ben to help me…” his voice petered out under the blank, stony expression that had crossed Jack’s face with every word.

“What do you mean ‘looking into something on your own?’”

Alex swallowed. He almost would have preferred it if Jack were just blatantly pissed. Anything would have been better than trying to infer her thoughts from her inscrutable facial expression. He met her gaze evenly and spoke with more surety than he felt. “When I heard about a journalist’s murder, I had this—feeling. It was the same thing I felt with Damian Cray, and no one believed me. I _knew_ something was wrong then, so, I started looking into this on my own.”

“So instead of telling me, you lied to me about it?”

“I—I didn’t want to, but I knew you wouldn’t let me. Not after what happened with Cray and then Venice. But, Jack, children are being taken, and no one’s doing anything about it! The police are barely even looking for them!”

Jack closed her eyes, trying to center herself with a deep breath. Her hand braced against her forehead, she stepped away. The conflict of wanting Alex to have a life of his own and harboring concern for the children played clear on her face. Alex didn’t move. His own war was tearing through his mind; he couldn’t let this go now but couldn’t see it through at the expense of Jack.

Finally, Jack broke the silence. Her voice wavered. “Why are you giving up, throwing away your chance at having a normal life?”

“That’s just it, Jack—I’m not normal! Ian made sure of that!”

“I know what happened with Ash on that damned oil rig was horrible. I know it’s been messing with your head, but, Alex, the man was a coward and a bastard! Whatever happened to him to make him that way had—has nothing to do with you.”

“This has nothing to do with him!” Alex forced himself to breathe. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go. Granted, he didn’t know how else it would’ve gone, but having a screaming match with Jack in the kitchen and Ben awkwardly staring at his feet pretending to be invisible was definitely not it. “I know you’re pissed ‘cause I lied about what I’ve been doing and you’re just trying to protect me. And I’m sorry that I lied to you—I truly am—but these kids have no one. I can’t just sit back and do nothing. Not when I can _do_ something to help.”

Alex took another breath, nearly entirely calm and accepting of whatever Jack said in response. He caught her eyes with his. “I appreciate you fighting for me, but what I’m doing, it’s in my blood.”

“That may be so, sweetie, but that doesn’t mean it’s always up to you to save the world.”

Jack sighed, giving Alex a gentle squeeze, as if to say that she wouldn’t stand in his way. She ruffled his hair and gave his bruised chin once more look over. “Why don’t you go get changed? I’ll have some ice, Advil, and maybe some arnica gel once you come back down. Sound good?”

Alex nodded once.

He walked toward the stairs, sending Ben a quick, apologetic smile. With one foot on the first step, he turned to Jack, eyes set on her face. “I really am sorry I lied.” Then he turned away and disappeared.

Jack watched his back as he retreated and seemed to sink as soon as he was out of view. She drew a tired hand across her face. The oversized hoodie and sweatpants hung off her frame loosely, making her seem even younger than Ben had originally thought. Almost too young to be in charge of a teenager, who was more than half her age and had such an unfortunate knack for finding trouble around every corner. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat.

Jack drew herself back together and sent the man a tired smile. “Sorry—that I tried to bite your head off. It just _pisses_ me _off_ that first he gets thrown into these life and death situations. And usually, the people he’s with are the one’s responsible for it.”

Ben waved away the apology. “Believe me: I’m none too pleased with MI6’s use of him either.” He followed her gaze to where Alex had disappeared. “He’s a good kid.”

“That he is,” Jack smiled proudly, but the gesture was tainted with sadness. She opened the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas, tossing it to the soldier. She smiled again, only with humor when he seemed genuinely bemused at the offer. Jack tapped her own face, just below the eye.

Ben had forgotten about the punch he’d taken to the face. The two thugs he’d fought had quickly set their sights on his shoulder once they figured out it was an obvious weakness. But, as soon as Ben brought a hand to his face and prodded the stiffness, he gratefully held the frozen packet against his throbbing cheek.

“I just wish I knew what to do with him. I don’t want him to get hurt”

Ben looked at her from around the packet. “I’ll look out for him,” he promised.

“Why did he come to you? I mean, not coming to me for help, I understand. Somewhat. I’m not exactly the James Bond type. But, how do you even know each other?”

“He was—kind of dropped on me and my unit last spring. I’m in SAS.”

Jack thrummed her fingers against her crossed arms and nodded with a sudden realization. “Right. Alex told me about that place. And how miserable this unit of asshat soldiers made his life.”

“…asshats?”

“My word, but the sentiment was the same.”

Ben felt his cheeks burn. He had to admit they weren’t the most welcoming to Cub, although he had been more willing to train with the kid. At least, he had helped Alex move the manhole cover during the RTI exercise. He also hadn’t been as rotten as Wolf, so he counted that in his favor. Ben rubbed at the back of his neck and said, “yeah, not our finest moments, but I’m willing to admit Alex is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I was there in Thailand, and then Australia.”

“So—you know about Ash?”

Ben nodded slowly. He had heard about the man and that he had turned out to be a mole for Scorpia, as did everyone on the mission. He had also been the one to kill him.

Jack’s eyes flitted back to the stairs, an inscrutable expression swirling across her features. “I can’t stop Alex from doing what he’s doing, but maybe you can…be there with him. To reel him back if it goes too far.”

Ben nodded. “I don’t intend to let him out of my sight.”

Satisfied, Jack nodded herself and tried for a smile, tugging at her hoodie’s sleeves. “Look, it’s getting late. You’re welcome to check in tomorrow, but I think you should probably go. Besides,” she grinned cheekily, “you’re looking a little worse for wear yourself.”

Ben had to agree. He felt like shit.

* * *

Alex collapsed onto his bed, not bothering to climb under the covers. The ice and Advil had helped ease the ache, but his body still groaned in protest. This was not surprising given the fight and subsequent escape. Just thinking about the events of the night made Alex gag. He could still feel the impact, the roll and collapse, of Jason’s nose as the cartilage and tiny bones gave way under Alex’s knee. Phantom pressure still bared down on the delicate construct of his throat. Alex rubbed at his eyes until phosphenes danced before him. The second time, he heard the unforgettable wheeze after he delivered a liver shot, he snatched up his phone and scrolled through till he found Tom’s number.

_Hey, you still up?_

A response came seconds later. _Course! Livin the italian vida ;)_

Alex smirked and shook his head. _Mate, thats spanish…_

_Semantics. Sooo hows the investigation?_

_Good. Found new leads. Jack knows…_

Tom took longer to respond this time, making Alex wonder if his friend fell asleep. He gazed around his room, too exhausted to do anything more look at the wardrobe holding his night clothes. He was just about to convince himself to get changed, when his mobile rang, Tom’s face flashing across the screen.

Tom didn’t even bother with hello. “So, how’d Jack take it then?”

“Not great at first, but I think it’s okay now.”

Tom hummed. “Wait, are you goin’ to tell me who’s playing the Watson to your Sherlock?”

“Fox.”

The name took a moment to sink in. Even though Alex had filled his friend in on all that happened the past year, he had kept Ben’s identity a secret. After all, it wasn’t his to tell.

“Fox. As in Fox from ten days in hell, stalking you around Thailand, then getting shot whilst preventing a nefarious plot to sink all of Australia into the Pacific Ocean? That Fox? What, are you guys like mates or something now?”

“Best of mates, actually. We’re thinking of getting t-shirts.”

“I’ve been gone all of two days, and I’m already being replaced?” Tom whined.

“What can I say? He made an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Just a few words with Tom, and he could feel himself letting go. Not that the horrid memories wouldn’t make a reappearance, or that he couldn’t see Jason’s sneering face as he prepared to beat Alex into unconsciousness, but his friend’s voice reminded Alex that that is all they were. Memories.

“Well, you tell Fox to get ready. Cause the battle to the death is on.”

“The battle to the death for the title of my best mate?”

“Yep.”

“As soon as you’re back on English soil?”

“Naturally.”

Alex laughed. “I’ll be sure to let him know.” He paused. “Thanks for calling, mate.”

“Anytime, Alex.”


	6. Journey of a Thousand Miles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some have been asking about whether this is based on the books or show, so just to clarify, this is mostly all in the books' universe but with some inspiration/influence from the show (mainly character influence). I loved the character of Kyra and someone else commented on it as well, so I decided to include but adapt her to my story  
> Like always, please read, like, and review
> 
> Hopefully this wasn't too boring, but the story is so close to leaving London and getting into the real action and plot

Daniil Danis never liked the doctor. He thought he was irreplaceable, his contributions invaluable, and even though that currently held true, no one was irreplaceable forever. Following Dr. Leichenberg down the nondescript hallway, he felt the same simmering annoyance at the man’s pompous scutter—as he seemed incapable of a regularly paced walk. The length of the hall only served to emphasize that particularly annoying trait.

Doctor Thomas Leichenberg was a very short man and of a very wide girth. As he scurried to keep pace with Danis, he brushed a heavy line of sweat from the side of his face. His straggly black hair was combed over the top of his head, awkwardly trying to compensate for the loss he had already begun to experience. He insisted on wearing thick black rimmed glasses too large for his face, which resulted in them slipping down the rather short nose. His lab coat was the only article that seemed properly tailored to his form. Danis, on the contrary, maintained perfect posture and a consistent gait—something that had been drilled into him since the age of fourteen, when he had enrolled in the Suvorov Military School of Moscow. The instructors there did not tolerate lassitude in any sense, and neither did he.

Dr. Leichenberg sniffled and sent the head of security a disdainful look. “Like I said, Daniil Maksimovich,” his voice was pinched and nasally, likely a result from a poorly healed break as a child, “I cannot just _speed it along_ , as you so articulately put it. Artyom Zharkov is well aware that these experiments take time.”

The doctor inspected the chart in his hands as he walked, once again returning his glasses to their place on the bridge of his nose. These particular pages detailed the biographical information, academic evaluations, and results of the medical examinations that took place upon the subject’s arrival to the compound. A picture of the subject, a young boy with mousy brown hair and blank eyes, was pinned to the upper corner. They had taken the photograph the day Hans Asker was brought in. The boy had been crying, tears rolling freely but silently. He had since completed everything required with acceptance and malleability—an encouraging start.

Leichenberg nodded to himself; the preliminary medical results were promising as well.

Danis kept his gaze level, unconcerned with the details of the project. He walked with his hands loosely at his sides. His fingers twitched with annoyance. How he hated Leichenberg. “You must understand his discomfort. Every day, this project gains more attention, and you have nothing to show for it. Now, we have to deal with the fallout of the most recent acquisition out of Petersburg.”

The doctor bristled. “That— _blunder_ has nothing to do with me. It was those inane, incompetent fools sent by the mafia. Who were hired by you, I might add. _My_ instructions were plain and simple: bring me a pubescent child of good health. Where and from whom they get them does not concern me.” Leichenberg’s pudgy finger thrust his glasses back into place, his face flushed with agitation. “She is here already. It would be a waste to kill her now.”

He stopped before one of the few doors that lined the hall, all identically grey and decorated with a single, small window at eye level. The room beyond was simple and filled with only basic furniture—a single cot, a wardrobe, a desk and bookcase. A hazy light glowed from the center of the ceiling, casting an ashen fluorescence around the room. The only occupant was a young boy. Hans Asker laid atop the meager bed; a glossy-covered book balanced on his knees. He glanced up once from the pages, when he caught sight of movement, but returned to reading disinterestedly. Danis glanced at the title and raised an eyebrow. It was obviously one of the Harry Potter novels, but Danis hadn’t realized publishers had even bothered with financing a Kazakh translation. After all, Russian was still used as much, if not more, than Kazakh in Kazakhstan.

Dr. Leichenberg consulted the chart and noted down a few observations. Asker had already completed all of the necessary evaluations and preparations since his arrival. The day prior, he had undergone the precursory dosage, a cocktail of proteins, beta blockers, stabilizing agents that would encourage the body’s acceptance of the next stage. After the preparative dose, he showed no adverse side effects. It appeared the most recent adaptations were effective. Asker would be ready for the first of the new trials once they arrive from Moscow.

“This process is exceedingly delicate,” Leichenberg remarked angrily, stepping away from the door and attempting to look commanding and fierce before the soldier. “If we move too quickly, your men will just continue amounting corpses and needing to find me replacements. I believe Zharkov will be even less pleased with that prospect.”

“Quite.”

“Until your men deliver the new formula, I am unable to do anything more than run tests on our newest arrival.” The doctor flipped shut the metal chart and gave an owlish stare, as if Danis had simply misunderstood the undeclared dismissal. When Danis simply stared back, Leichenberg harumphed and turned on his heels, scurrying away like always, muttering in his native language irately.

Danis caught a one word in particular— _Volltrottel_ —and longed to strangle the loathsome man. The rope-like scar that marred the skin of his neck twitched uncomfortably. A single blow would deal with the irritation, but unfortunately, the German doctor was the only one able and willing to lead the experimentation. But as soon as a possible replacement was found, the doctor did not have long to live. Until that time, Danis was forced to work with Dr. Leichenberg.

He pulled out a mobile phone, bulky and ancient, and punched in the number. Danis had been to the compound since its conversion, so he knew the exact turns that would lead him back to the entrance, despite nearly all the hallways looking identical to the last. The maze-like appearance hadn’t been intended originally—rather the Soviet tendency to produce exact copies in abundance was the reason for it—but Danis couldn’t deny its advantage. If they were ever to be attacked, the invaders would have a difficult time in navigating the labyrinth.

“ _Allo_.”

“Artyom Nikolaevich, the doctor refuses to accelerate the procedures. It seems he wishes to wait for the new formula.”

Artyom Zharkov hummed. He had expected as such, but merely the presence of his second in command would be enough to impress upon the researchers the danger of Vashenko-Chao’s arrival. “How does he seem?”

“Defensive, but optimistic.” Danis turned yet another corner, the material protecting the compound left bare at this side of the building. The initial construction had taken months longer than anticipated, and Zharkov had elected to move forward without the cosmetics and protection from the material itself. “Those dosed with the second-generation compound are not improving.”

“Unfortunate. What of the other training?”

“Adequate.” Danis had hired the instructor himself and knew they were well versed for the task, but the subjects’ compliance and abilities—or lack thereof—slowed the progress detrimentally. He reached the entrance of the main building. Two guards with automatic weapons stood by the inner doors. None of them acknowledged the head’s arrival, but the one that was stationed to the left automatically radioed for Danis's car to be brought around and warmed.

“No matter. The continuation of the evaluations is merely to establish baselines throughout the different stages of the experimentation.”

Danis recognized a softer voice in the background and heard a subsequent chuckling sigh from Zharkov. Mila was one of two people able to elicit such a response from the older, stone-hearted man—adoration mixed with acquiescence. He caught a few exchanged words, but Mila, in her soft dulcet voice, spoke too faintly to ascertain the specifics.

“Mila asks if you will return in time for benefit dinner tomorrow. She rather hates attending them on her own.” Zharkov’s voice took on a slight teasing tone by the end, aimed no doubt at the subject herself.

Danis nearly smiled. “I am heading back today. Please, tell her I will provide the necessary distraction for her to slip away unnoticed.”

Artyom Zharkov hummed approvingly. “Poedite ostorozhno.” _Drive safely._ Zharkov ended the call.

Danis exited the building, turning up his collar even for the short journey from the door to his car. The interior was kept warm for him, not too much so that wearing his underlayers would make him sweat. The chauffeur glanced in the back mirror once before pulling away and driving away through the empty streets. Identical grey buildings surrounded them like Minos’s labyrinth, indistinguishable, inescapable, and exanimate. Graffiti and shattered windows were the only attributes that distinguished one decrepit shell from another. The company had commandeered a few of those buildings for their own purpose, but even then, the exteriors remained interchangeable, seemingly dilapidated and uninhabited. The drive did not take long until the abandoned city gave way to trees and the overgrown forest that persisted for hundreds of kilometers. After that, there was nothing to indicate the presence of civilized life in the vast, frozen wilderness.

* * *

Alex was awake before the sun came up. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even had a bad dream that forced him into consciousness, but no amount of pretending would allow him to fall back asleep. Stubbornly, he laid on his back, inspecting the smooth white ceiling for any blemishes he might find—there were a few from when he and Ian had stuck glow-in-the-dark stars in the shape of constellations, but the plastic had long since fallen away—and witnessing the first strokes of light creep across the blue walls of his bedroom. When he couldn’t take the immobility any longer, he got dressed and wandered into the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, Jack was not awake yet, or at least was not willing to admit she was. Alex set about the kitchen quietly, brewing a large pot of coffee and exploring the fridge and cabinets for something that would inspire a tasty feast. His usual choice of cereal was less than appealing for some unknown reason. After waking up in a very conventional way, the morning felt too much the same. Maybe, Jack was onto something. Maybe he was becoming addicted to his abnormal life.

Alex pulled the eggs out and beat them with fervor, dropping a dollop of butter in a pan and watched entrancedly as it melted rapidly and bubbled. The eggs sizzled and crackled, and he added enough milk, chives, and other herbs that would have made any French chef proud. He was just heating up some slices of bread, when Jack appeared, rubbing the last bit of sleep from her eyes. She gave a small smile and mussed his hair as she walked past to get a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

“Want some eggs?” Alex offered. Any excess anxiety from the night before had vanished the second she tousled his hair—a simple but significant gesture. The normal, comfortable atmosphere—the same one that always filled the townhouse whenever Ian was away on a business trip, leaving Alex and Jack alone to each junk food and watch films with dinner—settled over breakfast, albeit a fraction more muted than usual. Still, it was calming and long overdue.

Alex waited until they had both finished their coffees—Jack already on her second cup—before he explained what exactly had gone on the past few days: Sallows, Tom, ECO, Ben. Instead of sitting under the questioning eyes of his guardian, Alex had busied himself with cleaning the dishes, fiddling with his mug, or brushing away non-existent crumbs on the counter. Her silence had been unnerving, the atmosphere too homey and normal. Usually, when he described things like this, he had just returned from a mission, and Jack had demanded to know just he had gone through. This time, he was voluntarily debriefing her about something he had thrown himself into, which he hadn’t done since the business with Damian Cray…and suddenly—a little embarrassed at how long it had taken him to do so—Alex realized why Jack was so averse to him investigating another incident on his own. He apparently did have a tendency to throw himself into dangerous situations, even without Blunt’s prodding.

Jack, to her credit, listened silently, wanting to hear everything before giving her two cents worth. When Alex described Tom’s part in it all, she bit her lip but, otherwise, accepted his actions. It was clear that she didn’t approve of it, however; after all, what parent, or in her case parental figure, would want their charge to willingly put themselves in harm’s way. But the absurdity of it all aside, she was proud—proud that he so selflessly sought to protect those who had no one to do so in their own lives.

An inkling of something else laced her expression, but she didn’t put it to words. Alex suspected it had to do with why he chose to involve himself. After Cray and then Scorpia, Jack supposed he had learned not to stick himself into other’s affairs, but apparently that was not so. He had too much of Ian, of his father, in him to let things go.

Alex was scrubbing at the stubborn remnants on the bottom of the pan when the doorbell rang. Jack pushed away from the table with a sigh. Both she and Alex knew who it was likely to be. He had left with the promise of checking in the next day, and there was no way he would leave Alex alone long, not when there were new leads. Sure enough, when she returned, a familiar black-haired soldier followed not far behind. The night’s rest seemed to have done him some good; only a slight red tinged his cheek where he’d been struck, and he moved easily, unrestricted and unaching.

“Mornin’.” He sent Alex a wide grin.

“Morning. Help yourself.” Alex sent a vague hand towards the coffee pot still half full of the morning’s brew and the mugs stacked next to it before returning to the dishes and watching Ben out of the corner eyes. The soldier hadn’t had the time to take in the details last night, and he was making up for the fact this morning. He openly examined the photographs and collection of books on the shelves, picking up one of the few standing frames. That particular photograph had been taken on Alex’s twelfth birthday, when the boy still possessed that innocent, childish glint in his eyes. Ian had just gifted him the Condor Junior Roadracer and insisted that Alex try it right away, unable to contain his own youthful glee. Jack had managed to capture the moment when Ian and Alex shared identical smiles, equal parts excitement and mischief. The rest of the room held miscellaneous souvenirs from the infamous Rider family adventures, each object carefully dusted and maintained despite having been in the same location for years. Ben took in the young boy in the pictures then discreetly compared the one setting the kitchen back in order. The difference was shocking.

Ben gestured to Alex’s jaw after finishing his quick round of the adjoining room. “Doesn’t look so bad today.”

Alex rubbed the skin unconsciously and nodded. It was a little puffy compared to the other side, but all things considered, the blow hadn’t done as much damage as he expected. Jack didn’t share the sentiment and huffed from her place at the table. She was regarding Ben with a uniquely-Jack expression, one that Alex was certain that only he truly understood the nuances of. Despite wanting to reproach and yell at the man who had accompanied Alex throughout the endeavor of the past few days—presumably encouraging the stupidity—she couldn’t completely disregard the fact that he had ensured Alex was not alone and, relatively, protected. Ben twitched uncomfortably nonetheless and settled himself awkwardly between the two inhabitants.

“Right, I’ll just get to it then,” he began, glancing at Jack to judge her level of knowledge and participation in the matter, “as I said last night…I want to bring this to MI6. The mafia is not a group we want to take on, not on our own.”

Alex nodded as if it were obvious. “I know. I knew I’d have to, eventually.”

“Sooner than later would be best.”

“Okay. How about this morning?”

Ben dipped his head once and raised an eyebrow at Jack, enquiringly. She shrugged and waved a hand dismissively.

“I think it’s pretty clear where I stand with MI6, but,” she eyes trailed over to Alex, and she sighed reluctantly, “I hate the idea of Alex pissing off the Russian mafia even more.” She brought her mug up to her lips and muttered so quietly, so underneath her breath, that Alex would have missed it had it not been so dead-quiet in the room, “just wish you would drop it off, and leave Alex out of it all.”

Jack knew—and Alex did too—that as soon as he set foot in the bank, he wouldn’t be coming home until the mission was complete. The difference between them, however, was the dread that had settled within Jack, had yet to come to Alex. Possibly, he didn’t regret his choice in getting involved, and because this was voluntary in the first place, he wouldn’t come to regret it. Thankfully, Jack left her objections mostly unsaid.

“Whatever does end up happening at this meeting, I expect to be in the know.” She pierced them with angry glares to prove her point then excused herself to get dressed for the day. She sent Alex one last imploring glance, squeezed his shoulder as she passed, and disappeared upstairs.

Ben visibly relaxed, and Alex bit back a laugh. The soldier most likely wasn’t afraid of the petite ginger, but Jack did not bother to conceal her anger at all things related to the world of espionage—even if one of those things had saved Alex’s skin more than once. That fact merely gave him points, moving towards a more neutral standpoint and away from the automatically negative score. Ben reclined against the back of the sofa, arms crossed, and hesitated. He wanted to ask something, and Alex could see him working through formulating a proper sentence but failing.

Finally, he gave up on tact altogether. “Last night, Jack mentioned Ash.”

Alex immediately knew where this line of questioning was going and deliberately withheld any sort of reaction. He shrugged with one shoulder and replied, “We worked together on the Snakehead op. He’s the reason I was sent to that—facility in the jungle. He was a mole for Scorpia.”

“He was also the reason you agreed to work for ASIS. That’s what you told Mrs. Jones at the temple in Bangkok.”

Alex couldn’t quite hold back the small flinch this time. The pain of it all was too fresh, and he was only willing to share it with Jack—he hadn’t even told Tom about the traitor that was his godfather. “No offense, Ben,” he snapped before he could regulate his tone, “but it isn’t really any of your business.” —That was a lie. Two shots, and Ben had killed the coward, taken away Alex’s chance at closure. “Ash is dead, and it has nothing to do with ECO or the mafia. Can we not talk about it? ...please.”

He carefully controlled his movements and forced himself to breathe, nodding toward the front door. “Shall we go to the bank now?”

Ben held Alex’s gaze for a second more before nodding himself. His curiosity was, no doubt, far from satisfied. “Yeah, okay. Meet me in the car when you’re ready.”

Alex found Jack was waiting for him on the bottom step of the stairs. He didn’t know how long she had been sitting there; it is possible she had heard Ben’s inquiries, but her expression was preoccupied with something else. Her arms were crossed, her teeth pulled at her bottom lip, the oversized hoodie swallowed her like a child masquerading in their parent’s clothing. Not for the first time, Jack looked like an older sister, not a full adult charged with his care. She didn’t want this for him. Her face said everything, so she didn’t have to.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

She worried at the hoodie’s sleeves and nodded. “I know. You always _try_ to be.” She ran her hands roughly against her hair, pulling straight any loose strands that had made their way out of captivity, then continued, “do you trust him? Like—just…I don’t know. Do you trust him to watch your back?”

Alex cast his mind to the man currently waiting in the driveway. Even with a shoulder wound, he had broken into a facility possibly run by the Russian mafia just to make sure Alex didn’t do something stupid on his own. This coming from the same man who had sat by whilst Wolf tormented him for days. It was conflicting and confusing on its own. And then, the Chada fight club, the organ-harvesting facility, and, of course, Ash thrown into the mix, and that storm of emotion transformed into a destructive, chaotic hurricane. Alex had gone to Ben because he needed someone, and out of all of them, he’d _wanted_ to trust Ben. _We were getting worried about you!_ Ben’s voice had been clear despite the thundering blades of the helicopter, and Alex remembered why he’d wanted to.

“Yeah,” he answered finally. “I trust him to have my back.”

“You know you don’t _have_ to do this, right?”

He gave Jack one last reassuring smile, “I know. I’ll call you when I know what’s going on. Promise.”

Alex turned away after because if he stayed any longer, he wouldn’t be able to face her. He was afraid that she would be able to see the kindling of excitement that had sparked to life ever since breaking into Sallows’s flat that first day. How could he look at the worry in her eyes when he felt that traitorous, addictive thrill in his gut? So, he gathered all of the documents and evidence he had accumulated and walked out the front door without looking any deeper.

The 2015 Ford Fiesta was idling in the driveway. The trip to the Royal and General Bank would normally take around thirty minutes from the Rider house in Chelsea; that is, if there were no traffic. Despite the fact it was already late morning, cars and lorries choked the tight London streets. They formed a constant construction through one of the main roads leading out of Chelsea and must have been caused by some kind of accident or construction. A few impatient drivers turned off, and soon another congestion formed along the side roads. It would be faster, however intolerable, to drive along the Thames and through Kennington on the A3.

Alex leaned against the window as the Ford inched along painfully slow. He felt marginally guilty for snapping at Ben but had zero interest in revisiting the subject. So, he stared out the passenger side window and studied the various shops in detail. They were all ones he had seen before; One was selling corny trinkets, everything bedecked with stereotypical English sayings or swathed in the Union Jack. A flower shop, that stretched out onto the pavement every Spring and Summer, had retreated indoors and now offered hollies, roses, and snowdrops in elaborate winter bouquets. Each passing block was so typically English, so purely London, Alex found himself enjoying the peace—especially that he didn’t have to answer any questions.

After the traffic stopped yet again, somewhere near Elephant and Castle, Ben broke the silence. “So, back at Brecon Beacons…”

Alex glanced at the man and tried to gauge just what it was he was going to ask. Ben looked relaxed, his right hand lazily up against the window, tracing mindless designs on the glass. Then, the slightest twitch of discomfort and embarrassment flitted across his face and shattered the nonchalant mirage.

Alex cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate.

“I never actually apologized for how we—I—acted,” Ben admitted haltingly.

Alex held back to see if more was to come. After a minute of more silence, he bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “And technically, you still haven’t,” he pointed out.

“I don’t remember you being this cheeky back then. But, well, I am sorry.”

“Jack have a go at you, then?”

“Apparently, we were real asshats…”

Alex cackled. “I believe I used the term gits.” He squirmed awkwardly and said, “apology accepted. Besides, you weren’t _entirely_ a prat. I mean, you did lend me a hand during RTI. And, I think burning down an underground fight club and finding me in the middle of an Australian jungle kind of makes up for most of the unpleasantness.”

“Good to know there is a road to redemption in your books,” Ben laughed.

Alex smirked and returned to the distraction of scanning his surroundings. More of the shop exteriors had taken on even more lights and decorations over the last few days, intricate displays designed with luring in tourists and customers. A few parades of shoppers ambled from one exhibit to the next with steaming cups in their gloved hands. One or two trinket shops posted vibrantly colored signs in their windows, advertising wonderful and unique gifts for significant others or distant relatives. One store in particular had hung an advent countdown outside its door, and with a start, Alex realized the holiday was just over a week away. Stuck in his own mysterious world, he had yet to buy any gifts, or even contemplate the thought that he needed to. Alex nibbled on his nail; it wasn’t that he had many people to shop for, anyways. There was Tom, but he was already in Naples visiting Jerry; Alex reckoned he could easily find something once his friend was actually back in the country. Then, of course, there was Jack. She hadn’t made her yearly list yet, but she was one of the easiest people to shop for. It was Ian who was the true nightmare—

Ian.

Alex’s breath felt like lead in his chest. How had he forgotten? His uncle had died last March; it hadn’t even been a full year yet, which meant that this holiday would be the first without the man who had raised him.

Alex swallowed despite the dryness in his throat. He took shallow breaths, pressing back against the seat in an attempt to make more space. Had the car always been this warm? He forced his eyes to the gaze out the windscreen and continued those awkward, insufficient shallow breaths. He needed something— _anything_ —to distract him. Alex didn’t want to think about Ian, or the holidays without him, or anything relatively introspective. The first thought he could find, he forced out as normally as he could: “Why were you seconded to MI6 in the first place?”

Alex was relieved his voice didn’t sound tight or wavering at all.

If Ben found the question too random or out of place, he didn’t let it show. His eyes never left the road as he answered, “Six needed a new face essentially, and mine fit the bill. Plus knowing some Thai helped a bit.”

Up ahead, the reason for the tailback became obvious; a construction crew was positioned in the center of the lane, tending to a massive hole right in the center of the asphalt. An officer, completely swaddled in winter layers, minded the scene with disinterested eyes, waving forward each car in turn. Ben painstakingly circumnavigated the blockage, and then suddenly, it was like there had never been any traffic to begin with. They passed onto the London Bridge.

“You might not know this—you came and went so fast during training—but I’m the linguist of the unit,” he continued on unprompted. Maybe he had realized the change in Alex’s demeanor. “Each of member of a unit has a particular skill they excel at—languages, field medicine, weaponry, and the like.”

Alex had admittedly already been aware that SAS units had specializations, something the sergeant at Brecon Beacons had informed him of when first becoming Cub, but he had never put too much thought into what K-unit’s skills had been. Certainly, hospitality hadn’t been one of them.

“Snake’s the medic, Eagle’s skilled at sharpshooting and weaponry, and Wolf’s—”

“Good at pissing people off?” That earned him a dry smile.

“—close quarter combat.”

“Originally the SAS was founded as a regiment for World War II, but after that it developed into a specialized corp. I’ve trained in hostage rescue, engaging in raids, and covert surveillance—which is essentially why Six brought me in. I’d already done everything in preparation for the mission in Bangkok.” Ben sent over a lopsided grin. “I’m guessing your classes didn’t go over specific regiments from the World Wars?”

“No,” Alex admitted. “Mrs. Jones did explain a little once I got to Brecon Beacons, but nothing more than ‘the SAS is the British Army's most renowned special forces unit.’” His tone was only slightly dry; he didn’t want to inflate Ben’s ego after all.

The seemingly endless line of cars from earlier was nonexistent as soon as they passed the construction, and now, they were minutes from the center of London, minutes away from seeing Blunt’s ever-emotionless, plastic face. As much as Alex wanted to go through with this, the prospect of dealing with the grey man made him want to gag. He glanced furtively over at Ben; at least, the soldier would be there to break the monotony of the briefing—between Blunt’s greyness and Jones’s propensity for black, there was little opportunity for color.

Ben signaled a turn, and suddenly, the antique building came into view.

* * *

Alex searched for his favorite receptionist, when he and Ben entered the bank, only to be disappointed to find a new bloke sitting behind the front desk. He almost looked forward to forcing his way into an unscheduled meeting with the heads of Special Operations under her watch. Alex never said he was above pettiness. But, taking in the serious, concentrated frown on this new man’s face, he felt uninterested in such antics, so he plopped down on the black leather sofa, succumbing to its plush depths. Ben approached the receptionist—obviously able to provide some kind of official credentials that gave him access to the bank’s alternative side—but planted himself on the other side of the sofa after a curt exchange of words.

“Let me guess: this is just a bank, and they’ve never heard of Blunt or Jones.”

Ben huffed a laugh but shook his head. “No, but Jones is in a meeting at the moment. It’s not entirely unexpected. We didn’t have an appointment.”

Alex scoffed. Had they had an appointment, Blunt would have doubtlessly still made them wait. Usually, Blunt had all the power and control; Alex showing up unbidden with a mission of his own would have skewed that dynamic. The fact that Ben was there too would further tip the balance, which was partially why Alex had agreed to go _with_ Ben in the first place. Having the soldier there gave him more leverage than the previous times. A leverage he was very willing to draw on.

Whatever specifics the receptionist had given Ben, it seemed they had a while to wait, judging by the way the soldier stretched out against the sofa and rested his head in what looked like an almost comfortable position. Within a second, his breath had evened out tellingly. Alex resisted the urge to poke him, to see if he was _actually_ dozing in the lobby of MI6 Special Operations headquarters. Given that Ben had done something very similar in the Chinook helicopter on the way to prevent a tidal wave disaster, Alex was willing to bet that he was, in fact, asleep and expecting to stay that way for a fair amount of time. Rather than follow that example—although he was a little envious of the ability—Alex entertained himself by guessing whether certain customers of the bank were agents of true civilians. Only seven other individuals were currently in the lobby, disregarding the employees, who doubtlessly knew about the upper floors of the Royal and General.

Three were well dressed men, wearing woolen overcoats in order to protect the expensive fabric of their two-piece suits. They queued up for the receptionist and, in turn, held laconic conversations before taking an offered document and leaving. Like clockwork, another customer joined the queue and followed the same sequence. A woman entered and similarly stood patiently in the back. A small, swaddled bundle bounced gently against her hip. Alex genuinely wondered if the baby was an undercover ploy or simply well-behaved and silent. Out of the original seven, he reckoned five were at least aware of foreign intelligence operating above their heads.

After hypothesizing the newest arrival, Alex was debating trying to sneak up to the higher floors, maybe even leaping out of another window like he had nine months earlier. The line of clocks on the far wall, displaying the time from five different zones, suggested that only fourteen minutes had passed, but that couldn’t be correct. It felt like at least an eternity, and no one new had come in since a very short, very espionage-ignorant and disgruntled grandfather character snapped at the poor receptionist.

At ten past eleven, seventeen minutes after having claimed the sofa, Ben coughed himself awake and immediately swiped a fist against his mouth, which was wise. Alex had been betting against himself at how long it would take for the soldier to notice the slight drool slowly leaking out of the corner of his mouth; the guess was three and half more minutes.

Ben pushed to his feet and stretched his undoubtedly aching back. If it weren’t for the soft clicking of her heels, Alex wouldn’t have noticed Mrs. Jones’s arrival thanks to his lumbering form. This was only the second time the deputy head of SO had openly communicated a strong emotion. The first had been when Alex was in hospital after his shooting. Then, grief and unease had played plainly across her sharp features, pain etching itself deep into her jaw. This time, it was surprise that brought her up short.

“Mr. Daniels? — _Alex_? What are you doing here?”

The receptionist noticed her arrival and appeared before her within seconds, leaving an agitated customer at his recently vacated post. He leaned in and whispered a few words to Mrs. Jones, who sharply took in the two young men before her.

“Thank you, Roger.” Mrs. Jones fished a peppermint out of her pocket and popped it into her mouth; Alex was starting to wonder if his presence was the reason for the sour taste in her mouth. “It seems you and I have an appointment.”

She gestured for them to precede her to the lift, and within a minute, they had traversed the familiar hall that led to the head office. Mrs. Jones knocked once and entered. Alex forced a deep breath into his lungs, knowing the following moments would be tainted with the staleness and dreariness that always accompanied the head of MI6 special operations. Ben nudged him in, and the door fell closed.

Alex shouldn’t have been surprised. Mr. Blunt was sat behind his simply bare desk, dressed in drab greys and looked as colorless as the day they had met in the cemetery. Distantly, Alex wondered if the man wore makeup so as to appear so close to death—a somewhat similar tactic of using sarcasm and humor to disconcert his own enemies—but more than likely, life was simply trying to escape, one morsel of color at a time. Blunt barely even glanced at the SAS soldier and teenager as they entered the characterless room, Alex unceremoniously plopping down into the nearest chair. Mrs. Jones, always the sentinel, stood to the side and overlooked the dreary office. Ben remained standing, halfway between ease and attention.

“Alex,” Blunt remarked tonelessly, “I must say I’m surprised to see you here again. Willingly, no less.”

“Funny,” Alex responded. “You don’t look it.”

He saw Ben bite the inside of his cheek in order to keep a neutral expression. It wouldn’t do to mock the man who could assign you the dregs of all assignments. Ben cleared his throat and offered over the collection of documents detailing missing children, the history of ECO, and the theories of the late Hadley Sallows. On the way into the bank, they had unanimously agreed that Ben should take the lead. As a soldier, he had been trained to deliver briefings concisely, and—given how they had reacted to Alex’s thoughts on Cray—Blunt and Jones may be more accepting of the findings if they were given by another adult and professional. Jones took them wordlessly and cast an eye over the first of the pages.

“Five days ago, Alex discovered that a journalist, who had been investigating the disappearance of a handful of children, was murdered. Hadley Sallows, the journalist, believed that Elysian Care Organization had been the last point of contact for these kids, three of them British citizens, and Alex took it upon himself to investigate.”

Mr. Blunt leafed through a few of the documents, his characteristic grey glasses flashing.

“Alex made initial contact and found evidence of involvement from members of the local Bratva chapter. Last night, we went through the charity’s records and found that they had transferred large sums of money to a shipping company known as Istraflot, three times in the past four months, all three days after the initial disappearances. We were then attacked by three men, likely mafia given their proficiency in _systema_.”

Although he had given his own debriefs in the past, Alex was impressed by the sudden change in Ben—succinct and sombre. He had now seen three sides to the man: Fox the soldier, Daniels the spy, and Ben the average bloke. Would Alex have multiple facets the longer he spent in this world? A hand on his arm brought him back to the present, and Ben was looking at him expectantly.

“The photos,” Ben prompted again.

Alex hummed and handed over his phone. Again, Jones took the evidence and examined it first. There was no obvious change in her demeanor as she swiped through Sallows’s photos first and then Alex’s own, but she passed it on to Mr. Blunt. The silence of the exchange was infuriating. Alex just wanted a response—a sign that they believed him or that he was wasting his time sitting in the dreary office. Then, almost imperceptibly, Blunt nodded. He slid the documents away and back towards Mrs. Jones, who gathered them all together but made no move to return them to their owner.

“We, alongside MI5, have been keeping tabs on Elysian Care Organization,” Mrs. Jones admitted. “They are so large and involved in so many different countries, it would be unwise not to. Other intelligence agencies, DGSI and BND to name a few, have had similar concerns, but, as far as we can tell, there has never been any evidence of high-level criminal involvement.”

“Hadley Sallows found some, and it got him killed,” Alex said hotly. How is it an average journalist had been able to find such a connection when English, French, and German intelligence agencies had not? Had they even wanted to find something? “The three kids from the UK were last seen around ECO community centers. Three days after they go missing, the same charity sends large sums of money to a shipping company. That has to mean something to you!”

“The evidence does seem to indicate ECO is involved in the disappearances, although I suspect that the charity is merely a middle company.” Mrs. Jones scanned the photo of the records a second time, as if to confirm her hunch. “Which would make sense if it is, in fact, a Bratva operation. After all, Istraflot functions as one of the bases for the local operations. A fully functional shipping company based out of Moscow but completely run by the mafia.”

Alex barely believed what he was hearing. Jones knew the exact company that was probably trafficking kids out of England, one known to be run by a criminal organization. They had kept the malevolent charity under observation, and still this conspiracy had managed to go on for months, if not longer. Alex ground his teeth but forced himself to shove his frustrations to the side; losing it on the people he was asking support from wouldn’t do him any good.

“So, someone else entirely is paying ECO, which may or may not be run by the mafia, to kidnap children,” Alex said slowly. “The organization then pays Istraflot, another mafia front, to ship them out of the country, presumably to wherever the third party is from. All the while, the money is going into new accounts, all of which are under control of the Bratva.”

Blunt nodded approvingly.

“If you’ve suspected ECO and known for a fact that Istraflot was a front for a criminal organization, why haven’t you, the police, MI5 even, put a stop to it?” Alex was furious. All of this could have been avoided had they just done their jobs. Those kids might not be terrified or lost, if MI6 had simply done what Alex, a fourteen-year-old, had a few days prior.

Beside him, Ben shifted uncomfortably. “Alex,” he begun slowly, guiltily, “it’s sometimes better, if intelligence agencies know where the criminals are. They can—keep tabs on them, gain intelligence, develop contacts within the organizations. It’s better, easier, than taking one business down and searching around for the next one to pop up.”

“It’s a better business arrangement, you mean,” Alex shot back.

Blunt sighed, and if he were capable of expressing human emotion, he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is beneficial to us when we are able to contact them if necessary. Not to mention, Istraflot is a legitimate business that pays taxes and as well as significantly large tariffs.” Blunt sifted through his desk before abandoning the endeavor without finding whatever it was, he had wanted in the first place. “And, if we had dismantled this particular front, we wouldn’t have known where to go for more information on the missing children.”

“Or they wouldn’t have had a way to traffic them in the first place,” Alex muttered under his breath.

Blunt fixed him with an unemotional stare. “Mrs. Jones will arrange for a team to prepare for a raid on Istraflot Shipping Co. As you have followed it this far, Alex, I assumed you will see it to the end?”

* * *

The team Mrs. Jones assigned to the operation was headed by a man named Albert Trescott. An average looking agent with an unimposing demeanor, he greeted both Alex and Ben with an amicable nod and began to assemble the necessary equipment. Already prepping the plumber’s van that would transport them all to the warehouse district and ensuring the quality of the equipment were four other men, all enormous and towering in their combats and customary gear of an SAS soldier. Alex didn’t recall seeing any of their faces from his brief time spent at the training ground, but he recognized the same evaluating and reproving scowls when their eyes fell to the boy who would be joining in on the operation. Two nodded at Ben, the slightest shift in their expressions as they did so, and returned to their preparations. Ben joined them and fitted himself with similar equipment—a black Kevlar vest with only the smallest identifiable patch on the upper right and a Sig Sauer P226. A holster sat on his hip, easy to access within a second. He held out a similar vest to Alex, only there was a distinct lack of weapon. Once again, Alex was to take part in an operation without a gun. He for once didn’t comment on the fact and wordlessly slipped on the vest, finding it surprising light and well-fitted to his smaller frame. He suspected Smithers had something to do with the change and that such a reduction in weight had no effect on its durability.

Mrs. Jones didn’t expect there to be much resistance, which was why, only a single agent and SAS unit was accompanying them. Istraflot Shipping Co. was a side business, an operation that acted on its own with only a single brigade. They still paid tribute to the _pakhan,_ the equivalent of a capo dei capi, in London and answered to the _avtoritet_ in Moscow, but in all other respects, they managed their own actions. Past intelligence reported that this particular brigade consisted of six men, a mix of lower-level members. If they were indeed the ones trafficking the stolen children, the brigadier would be the main target, the most likely person to have the information they needed. Otherwise, Mrs. Jones had said, MI5 would have to wage war on each brigade and operation until they found the right one.

Alex shrugged his shoulders and bounced on the balls of his feet to test just how free his movements were. The plan may be for him to hang back until the Bratva members are subdued, but where Alex was involved, things rarely went according to plan. He planned to be prepared for just such an occasion. A few minutes later and with a signal from Trescott, the agents and soldiers crammed themselves into the back of the van. Luckily, the destination was not too far away, as immediately, the interior of the van swelled with congested air and uncomfortable heat. With every turn, Alex was flung into either Ben or one of the unnamed SAS men, who was less than pleased with being used as a buffer.

The exterior of Istraflot Shipping Co. was a shabby brick that had been weathered from years exposed to the briny salt of the Thames. An unkept wired fence used to run the perimeter but had long ago been ripped to shreds as a result of storms, meddling teenagers, and simple rust. Compared to other warehouses along the bank, it was on the smaller side, probably only able to fill a few storage containers at a time. Three cars, all old models and all having seen better days, were parked directly in front of the warehouse entrance.

Trescott parked the van on the far side of the neighboring building, out of view from the street and any wandering eyes. If it were seen, they would most likely assume the company had a burst water pipe, a common and disastrous problem in winter. The SAS unit trotted off immediately, taking a circuitous route to the opposite end of Istraflot, whilst Trescott, Ben, and Alex approached from the east. They had come prepared with a thermal imaging camera, but now, seeing that the building was made of brick, the device was rendered useless. The three men moved quickly across the yard, to the backdoor, and pressed against the freezing brick exterior. Ever present, frozen vapor floated in the air after each breath, collecting as a fine mist the longer they stood in the same place. Trescott held a hand against his commlink, waiting for the signal that would alert them to D-unit’s position. But, they would be unable to breach until they had an idea of how many targets were inside and where they were located.

Alex searched around the yard for any way to see into the warehouse and landed on a commercial-sized window, about two and a half meters above their heads. Unfortunately, there were no oil drums, wheely bins, or collection of discarded lumber to stand on. He tapped Ben and pointed at the window. The man understood and lent back against the bricks, bracing for the added weight and helping to maintain balance as Alex hefted himself up. The added height boosted him higher than necessary, and he ducked his head instinctively before slowly peeking through the grimy window. The filth clouded the glass pane, but Alex could make out five lounging figures, all men. Two were sprawled across a nasty, tattered sofa in the far north wall, whilst the other three sat adjacently. A large-screened tellie was playing a football game.

“Five men, northwest side,” he reported, though he stayed where he was.

Brigades generally consisted of five to six men, but if one of the lounging men was the brigadier, that meant there were only four subordinates in the squad. A flash of movement caught his attention, coming from just below him, and a sixth man strut out into the open room. Alex ducked again.

“Sixth man, east side but moving towards the others. No weapons visible. They’re watching a match on the tellie.”

He tapped Ben’s shoulder to indicate he was getting down. Both men had obviously done the maths of the possible missing man, but just because they _usually_ had six _boyeviki_ , didn’t mean that there would be this time. The comms crackled to life.

“In position. Only three targets in sight.”

Trescott relayed Alex’s report, contemplating the odds of breaching before knowing all the facts. Raids normally took a lot of preparation, especially if there was no immediate life on the line, but Mrs. Jones had made her orders clear: breach as soon as possible. The head agent nodded at Ben, who responded similarly. They removed their pistoles from the holsters and disengaged the safeties. Trescott unlocked the back door with a practiced flick of the wrists.

“Prepare to breach on my word,” he uttered into the comms.

Ben pushed Alex farther back from the door.

“Stay here until I give you the ‘all clear’,” he ordered and grasped the door handle with his nondominant hand.

“Breach!”

Ben yanked the door back, the hinges screaming in protest, and the agent and soldier burst in. There was shouting and cursing. A chair clattered to the floor and shattered. Alex could hear the practiced steps of the SAS soldiers charging across the concrete floors as they yelled for the occupants to get on the ground with their hands interlaced behind their heads. Countering yells clashed with the orders, and then there was single, loud bang.

Three more shots followed.

Before it even registered that he was moving, Alex burst into the stock room. A man was supine on the cold concrete, already a steady stream of dark crimson staining the grey floor. Ash—no, not Ash—a stranger, a young man with dark brown hair, choked once and stilled. Alex searched the room frantically for Ben and felt a hand land on his shoulder. He jerked away, but the hand held firm. Ben was frowning at him, the emotion etching into a permanent line on his forehead.

“I thought I told you to wait until I called,” he chided.

“I got impatient,” Alex lied.

Along the far wall six men rested on their knees, their hands already cuffed behind their backs. Alex glanced back at the dead man and scoffed. Apparently, there had been a seventh one after all. The six, live, gang members were scowling, sneering, radiating barely restrained rage but strangely silent. Trescott was asking them questions but may have well been talking to stones. Two of the _boyeviki_ , necks and arms covered with tattoos, were two of the same men from the photograph Sallows had taken in the car park. Another one, sporting a horribly swollen nose and two purple eyes, followed Ben’s movements with murderous intent. He had been the first one to go down in the fight on the second floor of ECO.

Alex wandered further into the warehouse, away from the cluttered corner that served as a lounge and was littered with empty bottles, crushed bags of crisps, and mashed cigarette butts. The rest of the room was in similar disrepair. Bruised boxes with shipping labels to and from London were stacked on a dysfunctional conveyor belt, which probably hadn’t been used since the warehouse had first been built. Larger wooden chests laid about, unsealed, the straw packaging escaping into the open air. Alex navigated through the mess toward the east, where the sixth man had appeared from. A door led away from the main room, but whatever was beyond was shrouded from the lack of light. He felt along the wall until he came across the light switch. The room was an office, or should have been, but every corner and surface was blanketed in more boxes and loose papers. The swivel office chair held mountains of old newspapers, coiled tightly by plastic ribbons. Underneath sprawling receipts and records hid one of the oldest computer’s Alex had ever seen. He weaved his way through the mountains of disarray, wincing when he bumped into a pile and sent it sprawling across the floor. The system was already running, the monitor simply hibernating, but when he shuffled the mouse around, the computer automatically prompted him for a username and passcode.

Alex cursed. He hadn’t thought to bring a gadget that would hack into system. After ECO leaving their records unprotected, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was possible Ben or Trescott had the ability to circumnavigate the security, but Alex could still hear the fruitless interrogation happening in the next room. Alex resolved to look around on his own first; if he didn’t find anything useful, then he would find a way into the computer files. The documents and receipts on the desk were telling in how recent and useful they would be. Those crumpled and tarnished by mysterious stains had been there for some time and had no apparent use for the employees, given how little care they were given, so Alex disregarded most of them almost immediately, especially if they lay close to the surface of the desk. He tossed away receipts from restaurants and local shops, as well as any takeaway menus. Records and documents towards the middle of the piles Alex scrutinized with care, humming as he scanned the words.

He nearly cheered when he found papers that seemed to be shipping records, written half in English, half in Russian. With his limited knowledge of the language—he had started learning it on his own after the incidences with Sarov and Drenin—he knew that the record was explaining the dates certain shipments arrived, the registered sender, and the final destination. Whilst it wasn’t a smoking gun, Alex had an idea of where to start his search: 28 August.

Дата: 28ого августа

Адресант: Истрафлот, Лондон, Англ.

Получатель: Истрафлот, Москва, Р.Ф.

Alex read other dates as well to make sure his suspicion was founded. Other dates and shipments listed either a company or a person’s name. Some packages would eventually make their way to Moscow, Ekaterinburg, Kiev, or some other far away city, but three shipments—one made on the 28th of August, another on the 13th of September, and the last on the 25th of September—only listed Istraflot as the sender _and_ receiver.

“Cub?”

“Here,” Alex responded, though not loud enough to be heard. He gathered up all of the shipping records from the past four months in his arms and wound his way back through the office and out into the storeroom. The soldiers had already forced the six men onto the feet and were marching them toward the exit at gun point. Ben and Trescott stood off to the side, watching it all.

Alex cut towards the prisoners, needing to keep them in his line of vision for what he was about to do. He gestured to the papers and called over to Ben, loudly and confidently. “They’re shipping the kids to Moscow.”

The soldiers stopped and looked at him, expressions caught between confusion and vexation. One of the _boyevik_ , however, stilled.

“They listed their own company as the sender and receiver. Discreet, could be an honest, mistake or someone sending a package to a local who could pick it up themselves. Except we know the day those three kids went missing, and that someone paid you,” Alex stared straight at the man in cuffs, “and ECO a lot of money to get them out of the country.”

The pulsing muscle in his jaw betrayed their silence. The _boyevik_ , or more likely the brigadier, jerked against the zipties and the arm holding him back, but there was nothing he could do. He had inadvertently confirmed a suspicion, at least a hope, that the Bratva were on both ends of the journey. After the children arrive in Moscow, they may as well disappear to some other, far away location, but at least Alex had a new place to search. Where they are kept and who it is funding the kidnappings were still out of reach.

Ben grinned and proudly ruffled Alex’s hair before pulling out his mobile.

“This is Daniels,” he said. “We have something.”

* * *

Transliteration:

Volltrottel = idiot / Dumbass (essentially) (German)

Братва = bratv **a** = Russian mafia (lit. brotherhood) (Russian)

Пахан = p **a** khan _=_ boss (lit. godfather) (Russian)

Авторитет = avtorit **e** t _=_ authority / absolute head of Bratva (Russian)

Боевик (боевики) = boyevik (plural = boeviki) = hitman / middle level member of Brava (lit. thriller, hitman) (Russian) 

Дата: 28ого августа = d **a** ta: 28ovo **a** vgusta (date: 28th of august) (Russian)

Адрес **а** нт: Истрафл **о** т, Л **о** ндон, Англ. = adresant: istraflot, london, angl (sender: istraflot, london, eng) (Russian)

Полу **ч** атель: Истрафл **о** т, Москв **а** , Р.Ф. = poluchitel': istraflot, moskva, r.f. (recipient: istraflot, moscow, r.u.) (Russian)


	7. To Moscow! To Moscow! To Moscow!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. My course load has been insane.
> 
> I hope this isn't too boring a chapter; fortunately, they are moving forward into the real action and towards the mastermind plot.
> 
> Also slight disclaimer, this chapter includes code-switching/language switching, and if it's too confusing, I can use less of it
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, read & review!

For the second time that day, Alex found himself sitting across from a man he absolutely detested. The darkening sky did nothing for Blunt’s complexion; instead, an ominous shadow seemed to envelop the man from behind. Alex absently envisioned black wings sprouting from the man’s back, and judging from the stern, scar-like frown etched into his face, Blunt was well aware that the boy’s mind had wandered far from the discussion at hand, though he didn’t comment on the fact. Alex rationalized that it wasn’t entirely his own fault; Blunt had recalled the team immediately after the discovery at the warehouse, with no regard to the time of day or the fact that Alex hadn’t properly eaten since the morning. The surges of adrenaline, periods of rest, and pure vexations of the day were wreaking havoc on his body, and hunger pains were frustratingly pulsing in his gut, to the point that he was even contemplating asking for one of Mrs. Jones’s peppermints. Instead, he sunk lower into one of the chairs and crossed his arms.

Alex had allowed Ben to take the lead again upon their return, preferring to participate with only half of his brain. Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones agreed rather quickly that Istraflot were taking the kids to Moscow, delivering them to the main facility and then whisking them away once again. The theory was that they were kept elsewhere in Russia; after all, why would the Bratva bother bringing them to Russia in the first place, when there would be far easier ports in other countries. Admittedly, Alex wasn’t as distracted as he appeared. As soon as Blunt concurred with the findings, which were speculative to begin with, he snapped to full alertness. The head of SO knew something they didn’t—something that corroborated or, at least, gave weight to the theory.

Blunt adjusted some files on his featureless desk and reported, “whilst you were at Istraflot, we reached out to other intelligence agencies and encourage them to do some investigating of their own. It seems there have been quite a few more disappearances than we were first led to believe.”

Mrs. Jones offered Ben and Alex a list that, at first glance, looked very similar to the one that had been found amongst Hadley Sallows’s research. She continued once they had had a moment to glance over the list. “After you figured out the connection, Alex, we were able to attribute many more disappearances to ECO, as well as to other known Bratva associations. Over the past two years, dozens of people have been disappeared. Systematically, like clockwork—and all with similar typologies as Arain, Lloyd, and Vivier. There is one difference, however: the first few missing persons were much older.”

Alex read the names, all of which were ordered by the date of their disappearances, a note besides their names indicating the country of origin. It was amazing that no had put it together before now; it was as if a wave had swept across Europe and those unfortunate enough to be caught in the riptide vanished along with it. There was a clear path the kidnappers had followed, starting in eastern Siberia, cruising through the old Soviet bloc, ending in England.

“It wasn’t until more recently that the victims started to get younger. It seems the ideal target now is around puberty.”

“But why?” Ben had been silent up until then. “No one’s found any bodies, none of the victims have turned up anywhere. No one even noticed they were gone, or weren’t able to do anything about it. Why go from taking university students to children?”

“We don’t know.” Mrs. Jones unwrapped a mint and popped it into her mouth, though the acrid expression pulling at her face didn’t disappear at all. “Even the more recent victims still vary in age, gender, ethnicity. The youngest we know about was eleven, the oldest sixteen. Aside from usually being those who would generally go unnoticed, there is no way to predict the next victims, or how many there will be.”

“Which is why, the intelligence community is—concerned, to say the least. And why,” Blunt’s grey, conniving eyes landed on Alex, “we have decided to send an agent to Moscow and find out just exactly who is paying the Bratva to take these children and for what reason.”

Alex knew exactly why the man was looking at him. After all, wasn’t that exactly why he had begun looking into the disappearances in the first place? He had known that investigating it on his own then taking it to MI6 would result in him being sent on another mission. Still, Alex felt a flicker of surprise and apprehension—how could he not, with all that he has been through on each of his operations? But then they were overshadowed by the familiar thrum and beat of anticipation, a hum of excitement and addiction to the clarity that accompanied it—

“I’ll do it.”

Alex didn’t think Ben would support his decision right away. He expected the soldier to fight him on it, given how Ben had wanted to leave Alex out of the oil rig operation, but he didn’t anticipate the confusion tinged with annoyance. The soldier regarded him with that assorted expression, which transitioned to restrained anger as it moved to the head of SO. Ben was shaking his head grimacing as he answered, “no. Not an option.”

“Officer Daniels—” Mrs. Jones began.

“No, I brought this to you because I didn’t want Alex in more danger than he already was.” Ben carded a hand through his hair, barely restraining his words. As much as he wanted to yell, Blunt and Jones were still his superiors, and he was still a soldier. “And your solution is to send him to investigate the very people who are _kidnapping_ _kids_ in the first place? It was one thing for him to be involved when no one else was, but the FSB—hell even Trescott—can handle this. _Without_ Alex.”

Alex bristled and remarked defensively, “it’s my decision to make.”

Blunt leveled the soldier with an unamused stare. “On the contrary, an agent, even one as unassuming as Trescott, would immediately raise suspicions. No one would suspect a mere schoolboy of investigating the Russian mafia. It’s what makes Alex such an effective agent in the first place.”

Ben scoffed.

“You didn’t object to Alex’s participation in the raid against Istraflot.”

“That’s different. I was there, and it was in _England_. Send him on this mission, you may as well wrap him in a red bow whilst you’re at it.”

Whilst Alex acknowledged Ben had a point, he didn’t entirely appreciate the conversation carrying on as if he was not in the room at all. He had been the one to make the connection, been the one to follow through, recruited Ben, and brought it all to MI6’s attention. He was capable of making his own decisions regarding the risks he took, and Alex had long ago resolved to see this through. Blunt and Alex had used the ruse of a schoolboy in the past, and whilst it was not entirely effective all the time, there was a reason he was such an effective agent.

Blunt never looked away from Ben and appeared faintly annoyed at being challenged. Apart from Jack, who had never been in a position to do much, no one had ever been able to oppose or prevent Six’s requisition of Alex’s services. “Be that as it may, it does not change the fact that Alex is the only one able to go to Russia and look around without raising any alarms. Russian agents would be identified within minutes of their own attempt. The FSB have graciously agreed to MI6’s involvement. More than a few Russian citizens have gone missing, most recently Kyra Vashenko-Chao, daughter of a prominent businessman from Moscow.”

Somehow Alex wasn’t surprised. Blunt had never waited for Alex’s consent in the past, why should he start now? Of course, the man would have contacted Russian intelligence about a possible operation; though, Alex reasoned, Blunt was the type of man to send an agent regardless of having permission to be there or not. The fact that the Russian intelligence agency was giving their blessing to a foreign involvement spoke to how serious the issue truly was. Alex wondered if they would have been so acquiescing had Kyra Vashenko-Chao not been taken.

Ben had gone very still. “You’ve been planning on sending Alex since we walked in this morning.”

Blunt didn’t bother to answer. It was clear enough that Alex was his first choice in agent whenever it came to anything remotely disastrous. The fact that Alex had investigated it all to begin with and then brought it to MI6 was pure icing on the cake. Blunt just didn’t realize, or at the very least acknowledge, that this was a one-time event—Alex was not about to go jumping off a bridge just at the man’s say-so. Not anymore. Ben’s support—whilst not appreciated in its entirety at the present moment—proved that Alex wasn’t stuck treading water in the tumultuous sea that was British intelligence. But for now, he was willing to follow Blunt’s lead, with a few adjustments of his own. He wasn’t about to agree to go in blind and unprepared.

During his past assignments, Alex had played the parts of an American or Englishman, where he had known the language and had easily been able to investigate without much suspicion. With ASIS, he had had to rely on Ash and the man’s translation—something that had nearly gotten him killed. If Alex were to go to Moscow, it would be obvious he didn’t belong. He had begun to learn Russian after the Sarov incident, but he was nowhere near fluent. Whilst he could pass as a Russian by appearance, the language barrier would instantly label him a foreigner. There was no way around that, unless Smithers had invented some futuristic translation implant. The thought in itself was terrifying—knowing Smithers’s inventions, it would most likely have a secondary explosive function.

Alex cleared his throat. “How would this work? I can’t exactly pass as a native speaker.”

Mrs. Jones nodded, heaving a breath that was almost a relieved sigh. She had been chewing at a peppermint candy, appearing almost hesitant and reserved, but when she spoke, her voice was as calculating as it always was. “No,” she agreed, “however, it is very convenient that you will be going to Moscow. It just so happens that it is home to some of the best international schools in the world, and the population itself is only circa sixteen percent native Muscovite. We have already begun building you a cover story. Although in theory, you could go under cover as an English citizen, we think it would be safer to put some distance between you and what’s happened in London. You are fluent in German,” she glanced at him as if to confirm what she already knew, “so we will put that to use. Depending on your fluency, I’m sure the FSB would provide you a tutor to ensure your Russian has the proper accent.”

Alex nodded. That was more preparation than they had afforded him in the past; they hadn’t even thought about accents until he’d opened his mouth in front of the CIA agents, and he’d been forced to adapt in the moment.

Ben grimaced, his obvious dissensions going unnoticed or disregarded. He opened his mouth, set on arguing for the sake of Jack, but Alex broke in before he had the chance, addressing him as if they were the only ones in the room. After all, he didn’t need to explain himself to Blunt and Jones. They didn’t give a damn about his reasonings, so long as he complied with their orders. Jones may have an inkling of remorse as to how MI6 had treated the young spy, but it didn’t prevent them from employing his skills to their own end. Ben was the one Alex needed to convince—to clarify the confusing whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and desires that clamored constantly through his head.

“Ben,” Alex stared at his hands, torn and almost uncertain how to frame his own thoughts, “I want to do this. I know that there are others—that it’s not only just up to me to find them, but no one was even looking before. Not really. If I have the capability to do something about this—find the missing kids, or stop the people who are doing this, I’ve got to do this. If my _being_ _there_ saves at least one of the missing kids, I’ve got to do this. Not because they,” Alex nodded towards the emotionless figure across from him, “want me to. This is my decision.”

Ben’s hands clenched and unclenched rapidly as he bit back his words. His focus moved from Blunt, to Jones, to Alex—the muscle in his jaw twitched like it had when he had given Alex the two stipulations for his help, which had come back to bite him only two days later. No doubt, Ben was revisiting the conversations he had had with the young spy, trying to see whether he could be convinced to say no. Already, Alex had refused to back down and be left behind every chance the option arose; now, he was offered the funds and opportunity to officially see this threw. Ben searched Alex’s face and exhaled grudgingly, grinding his teeth. He fixed his glare on the two MI6 heads. “He’s not going alone.”

“I expected nothing less,” Jones responded easily.

“And we get backup. A support team from the very start.”

Alex’s jaw nearly dropped when Jones nodded. Never had he ever had backup _before_ a mission. Having a partner to begin with was a novelty of its own, but the prospect of a team already in position, with the primary purpose of keeping him alive was inconceivable. Alex had been prepared to see this through on his own—maybe with the help of a Russian intelligence agent at the very most—but now he would have FSB support, Smithers’s inventions, Ben _and_ a backup team? He almost smiled. Only the seriousness of Ben’s expression, which was still not pleased to say the least, and being in the presence of Blunt stopped him from doing so.

“So, you want me to go to Moscow,” Alex deliberated, “to look around Istraflot’s center and investigate the Bratva members involved?”

“Essentially. The FSB have already provided us with fundamental intelligence regarding the Bratva in control of the shipping company. What you might not know is that _Bratva_ is actually a blanket term for the Russian mafia, when, in fact, there are quite a few groups that form their own brotherhood of sorts, much like the Italian mafia. After the fall of the Soviet Union, such organizations became much more prominent. Whilst the government was thrown into chaos and struggled to maintain control, the _mafiya_ filled that void. They essentially created their own society, the leaders of which came to be known as _vory v zakone_.”

Alex didn’t recognize the phrase, but it must have meant something significant.

“Thieves in the law.” Mrs. Jones translated. “They controlled everything from the black market to even certain positions within the government. At one point, intelligence reports suggested that the various _prestupnye_ controlled up to two thirds of Russia’s economy. What I am getting at is they are exceedingly powerful and well-resourced. There are four major Bratva factions based out of Moscow. The, for a lack of a better word, gang operating out of Istraflot is part of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, which is run by a man by the name of Pavel Bradlik, the successor of Sergei Mikhailov.”

“If the FSB know so much about Istraflot’s criminal activities, shouldn’t they be able to figure out who’s funding the kidnappings?”

Blunt clasped his hands in front of him. “As we explained earlier today, we have to maintain a careful balance with these criminal organizations. It is impossible to completely dissuade their activities, and simply attempting to do so is a waste of resources. The situation in Russia, you’ll find, is quite similar. If the FSB showed an increased interest in their enterprises, they would tip the scale out of their favor.”

“Which is where I come in.”

“Precisely. Surveil Bradlik’s faction and identify who is funding these kidnappings, or where they are being taken once they arrive in Russia. Once that is accomplished, we will go from there and arrange an infiltration.” Mrs. Jones checked her watch and pursed her lips. “I do believe Smithers will be done with his preparations. Unless there are any questions, I suggest you go meet him for your cover identities and equipment.”

Alex didn’t miss the fact she said ‘identities,’ and neither did Ben, judging from the twitch at the corner of his eye. It seemed he was getting a crash course in Blunt’s capabilities in manipulation, and he was aggravated by what he found. Ben was a soldier through and through; his secondment as a spy probably served to solidify that conclusion. He wasn’t built for a world that was constantly trying to screw and manipulate you back.

Alex stood, knowing a dismissal when he saw one. He stopped with his hand on the door and looked back at the heads of Spec Ops. “This doesn’t mean I work for you,” he said slowly and clearly. “I’m choosing to do this. You’re the best bet at getting those missing kids back alive.” Alex paused a second longer to ensure that the message was clear, and then he walked out the door without looking back.

* * *

Smithers was waiting for them in an office down the hall. It was a basic room that void of any personal touches and evidence that it was actually in use. A long table sat in the center, perfectly ordered with a neat pile of papers and box in the center, a carefully folded black cloth pooling from the top. The man himself was sat in the corner and fiddling with a long, dainty rope. He wore his usual pin striped suit, this time a light tan and deep-set brown. His face broke into a jovial smile, the lines setting deep in his face, when Alex and Ben entered. Alex couldn’t help but smile in return. He really did like the gadget-maker, and not just for the cool inventions that had a pension for saving his life in dire situations. Smithers heaved to his feet and clapped the boy on the shoulder, the cord swaying loosely from his fat fist.

“Alex, my boy,” he exclaimed, “I’m glad to see you went through with finding someone to watch your back. I’ll say I was caught by surprise to hear from Mrs. Jones about another mission.” His bright eyes dimmed with veiled disappointment, although he brightened considerably, when his gaze shifted to Ben. “And, Officer Daniels, I was pleased to hear you were accompanying our dear boy. How is that shoulder healing up?”

“Well, thanks. Well enough to go chasing after Alex, that is.” Ben punctuated the remark by throwing a dry grin towards the young man in question.

Alex huffed, just as Smithers let out a hearty laugh.

“Indeed.” The Irishman sobered a moment later. “Apologies, old chap, we didn’t mean to talk as if you weren’t there. In fact, you are most likely wanting to know just what I have for you today. You already have the watch in your possession, but where to start…” He rubbed absentmindedly at his chin, scanning the items piled high on the table. Electing to begin with the most accessible choice, Smithers offered the cord clasped in his hand to Alex, who let it rest judiciously in his palm. The object, as it turned out, was a necklace—a silver hammer with intricate woven vines engraved all along the edges. A triskele, a three-pronged spiral, was melded into the center, an infinity knot encircling the metal loop around the cord. Even after he weeks of school he missed, Alex recalled the name of the symbol immediately—Mjölnir, Thor’s Hammer. To the Norse, the centuries-old symbol represented heroism, self-reliance, and honor, worn by thousands during the Age of the Vikings. The craftsmanship of this particular pendant was incredible and painstakingly precise. Alex slipped the cord over his neck and was surprised by the minimal weight of it.

“This is one of my proudest designs,” preened Smithers. “Even to the most analytical eye, this is an ordinary pendant, but to you…” He took the small charm between his fingers and ever-so-slightly twisted the spiral engraved in the center. With a faint click, the tip of hammer’s head revealed a USB drive. “This drive will hack into any secure system within minutes. Should there be any resistance, although I highly doubt there will be as I programmed it myself, simply rotate the ivy etching at the neck three times. It will send an alert to my personal computer, and I will take it from there.”

Alex thumbed the intricate patterns appreciatively. The appearance itself was pleasant and at the same time unassuming, even if the gadget hidden inside was as stereotypically James Bond as you could get. Knowing the care to which Smithers designed his inventions, it would stand up to any inspection—be that by an enemy agent or Xray—so unless Alex were to be put in a position where he was relieved of all his belongings, the pendant would prove useful. Already a locked computer system had hindered the investigation; who’s to say that it wouldn’t again?

Alex grinned and went to thank the man, but Smithers had already moved onto the box at the corner of the table. The black cloth Alex had noted earlier was actually a black nylon jacket with white strips that began at the shoulder and ended at the wrist. A white, three-petaled flower design was fashioned on the upper left chest. Smithers held it up now with a proud flourish, and the material hissed that telling, shimmery sound that was typical of all nylons. Alex took the proffered clothing, letting the fabric run through his hands loosely. He had an idea of what it might do and was hoping that a familiar texture would prove him right. The perfect replication of the nylon felt nothing like the bullet-proof trail rider jersey Smithers had provided for the fiasco with Cray, but when Alex glanced up from the jacket, the man was nodding encouragingly.

“As much as a stereotypical joke as it has become, Adidas is a very popular company in Russia,” Smithers said, gesturing to the logo. “Of course, you will be provided with an appropriate wardrobe to go along with your German identity, but I thought you might benefit from one of our bulletproof jackets.”

“Bulletproof jacket?” Ben demanded incredulously. He regarded the thin fabric dubiously, comparing the weight and thickness of an average Kevlar vest to the infirmity of the nylon. “Where’re my bulletproof clothes?” he asked, jokingly petulant.

Alex smirked and held out the jacket, which was very evidently meant for someone his own size. “You’re welcome to try mine, but with your abominable height, I doubt it’d fit.”

Ben wrinkled his nose but chose not to comment.

Smithers once again tottered to the table and shifted through the objects within the box. He produced two little booklets and a pair of generic manila files, confirmed their contents, and handed one of each to Ben and Alex. “As Mrs. J probably mentioned, we have already created cover identities for the two of you. They have enough clout to stand up a certain amount of inspection, but do try to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny. There was simply not enough time to provide all the proper documentation,” Smithers explained apologetically. “Alex’s has a bit more given he is younger and had fewer years to fill with documents and records. Yours, Mr. Daniels, only has the barebones, I’m afraid.”

Alex flipped open the maroon booklet, an authentic passport from the Bundesrepublik Deutschland. His face stared up at him, taken from his own official passport; the picture was already a few years old, back when he still had a slight softness in his cheeks and hair cut shorter than it was now. Only here, it wasn’t Alexander Rider in the photograph, but rather Alexander Eliasovich Adler from Berlin. He was the same age as Alex, with a swirling script that spoke to years of dictation and practice. A quick skim through the folder he had been provided showed that it was a fundamental backstory of a fourteen-year-old leaving behind his friends for an entirely new life.

Alex snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at Ben’s own documents. It didn’t miss his notice that, although red, Ben’s was a brighter shade, suggesting that was from an entirely different country, and not one that belonged to the European Union. If they were headed into a foreign country, it made sense that at least one of them would be a citizen—and Ben had also proven himself at least knowledgeable of the Russian language. Alex tried to catch the front of the passport, searching for the telling Cyrillic lettering and two-headed eagle that was the official emblem of the federation.

“When do we leave?” Ben asked as he tucked the documents securely under his arm.

“0900 hours tomorrow,” Smithers answered. “You will be flying into Berlin first then onto Moscow in the early afternoon. From there on, the FSB will be managing things.”

“Too bad I won’t be getting one of your Gameboys,” Alex grinned in jest, “however will I entertain myself?”

Smithers let loose a jovial laugh. “I’m sorry, old chap, but we didn’t think one would apply in this situation.”

Belatedly, Alex realized just when Smithers said they were leaving. If they were leaving the next day, then that meant he would have time to return home and explain everything to Jack, face-to-face instead of the usual silence that accompanied his missions. He would be able, or at least try, to express just why he was agreeing to do this in the first place. Something he didn’t think he would be able to do but avoiding it even less so. Aside from wanting to save those missing kids, and anyone that was made a victim by these people, he didn’t really know why he was doing this. At least Alex would have time to contemplate it on the way home.

* * *

Kyra glared at the men fiercely. She doubted it affected them in the slightest, but she either gave into the terror that endlessly threatened to consume her from the bottom up or displayed as much fury and hatred as she could. So, she clenched her jaw and stared, wishing she could sink into the ground under her feet. The doctor, a squat man of tiny stature, hovered in the door to her prison and impatiently forced the circular glasses back on his face. This was the second time she had made the doctor’s acquaintance. The first had been upon her arrival, when she had regained consciousness in a hospital-esque room. The nasally man had been hovering over her, his inhumanly piercing gaze scrutinizing every aspect of her unconscious face, and in blind terror, Kyra had struck out with as much strength as she could muster. Looking now, her chest warmed with pride at the sight of the yellow-purple mottled bruise on the side of his face.

The doctor huffed and flicked his wrist in order to check his watch. “Ms. Vashenko, you can either do this willingly or be brought forcefully.” He spoke with a strange accent, one that Kyra could almost place. Certain vowels were tainted by German pronunciation, but he could easily be Austrian or a native speaker of some other Germanic language. “We have a strict schedule to keep.”

Kyra crossed her arms and leaned back against the white plaster wall. Her neck bent forward awkwardly and uncomfortably, but she refused to adjust her position. If she shifted now, she relinquished any defiant power she had. “I don’t very much care about your schedule,” she responded dryly.

The doctor sighed, but he had not expected her attitude to change after a few words. She didn’t understand the need for her sacrifice, didn’t comprehend what they were trying to achieve. “Bring her.”

He left, infuriated and defiant screams following in his wake. The doctor set off down the hall alone, as he knew the men would deliver their patient to the examination room in due time. Until then, he would prepare the tests. The girl threw herself, attempted to use her weight to slip from the double-handed grasp of her captors, and thrashed with all the savage ferocity of a caged animal. The actions did nothing, of course. She was a mere child, and the two guards on either side outweighed her in nearly every relevant capacity. A wild kick caught one of the men in the shin. Halfway down the featureless hall, they had had enough. They transferred their grip, restraining her in completely and leaving her with no physical outlet to her terror. She writhed and screamed, but the guards carried to the end of the labyrinthine halls, through the open grey door, to where Doctor Leichenberg waited.

Examination Room 330 looked just like any other doctor’s office. Sterility clung to their air with a pungent acridity. BP cuffs, stethoscopes, and biomedical bins lined one wall; other medical paraphernalia cluttered an otherwise orderly table. Unlike other contemporary office, this particular room, and all the other rooms for that matter, were worn and stained, telling of years of disuse. The company had spent millions modernizing the necessary equipment, even more on the security and protective measures, but almost nothing was given to repair the peeling paint and damage that had occurred during the evacuation.

The portly doctor gestured to the medical chair in the center of the room. It was fitted with leather restraints. When Kyra took in the room and the medical instruments laid out pristinely on a sterile cloth, ready for use, she renewed her thrashing with increasing hysteria.

Dr. Leichenberg clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Really, Ms. Vashenko, if you do not calm yourself, I will have to resort to measures you will not enjoy.”

If he were any closer, she would have spit in his face. However, locked tightly to the medical chair, she felt her face twist into something unrecognizable, disgusted and furious, and terrified. She watched as the monster’s hand roved over the tray of instruments, choosing a nylon tourniquet. He drew it expertly around her upper arm. It pinched her skin when he pulled it tight. Now that she had no way out, no means to escape, she sat unnaturally still and regarded the process with fascinated horror. The doctor brought a needle to the crook of her arm, glancing at her from over his thick-rimmed glasses.

“This will only hurt for a moment.”

* * *

Jack was waiting for Alex in the kitchen, staring absently into a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. Although she heard him come in, she didn’t react, simply took a sip and grimaced at the taste. Jack knew, or at least she guessed what was about to happen, and had no desire to prove herself correct. Alex had rung earlier to tell her he was still in the country—delivered it in a joking tone, but neither of them voiced that it was a viable occurrence—and that the Bank was taking the case seriously. He hadn’t mentioned the raid on Istraflot, not wanting to worry her more than she doubtlessly already was, but compared to what he was about to tell her, taking part in a SIS-sanctioned assault was a drop of anxiety in the barrel of panic that was Alex’s life. Now that he had the opportunity to explain things himself, he wasn’t about to waste it. Alex came up behind his guardian and bumped her shoulder affectionately, resting his forearms on the island counter.

Jack glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “I’d offer to make tea, but I have a feeling this will be a hot chocolate kind of conversation.”

Alex watched as she set about the familiar routine of making hot chocolate: first heating the milk on the stove then slowly pouring in the chocolate slivers and stirring until it was the perfect, uniform dark brown. When he was younger, he had thought that was such a complicated process—finding the perfect balance of chocolate to milk and limiting the amount of that nasty milk skin that always stubbornly collected on the surface—but Alex came to realize that the deliciousness stemmed from the fact that someone else had made it for him.

Her back was still to him, when he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

Alex saw rather than heard the sigh. Her shoulders, usually so poised from her childhood years as a dancer, collapsed, and the ladle clanged against the side of the old pot on the stove. She wasn’t shaking, either out of anger or fear or tears, but the rigidity in her frame was not an improvement. However, Jack didn’t confront him immediately; she ladled out a couple of servings of hot chocolate and slid a mug over the counter. Her face was blank.

“Do I get to know where you’re going, or is the answer classified?”

Alex didn’t sip his cocoa but swirled the dark, frothy liquid around the inside of his mug. “I’ve never used classified as an excuse with you.”

Jack’s expression softened, ashamedly. “I know.” She ran a tired hand over her features and stared into her cup. “I just hate this, you know? I’m lucky to even get a phone call saying where you’re off to, and now that you’re here telling me yourself, I don’t know what to expect.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Honey, no. _You_ shouldn’t have to deal with this. I mean, neither of us, but I’m not upset for my sake.”

Alex didn’t voice that twice now he had deliberately and knowingly involved himself in high-risk, life-threatening matters. Even when he had a choice, he still threw himself headfirst—sometimes literally—into them. Instead, he sipped his rapidly cooling drink, the sweetness almost overwhelming and sickening. It tasted perfect. “Still,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

All of a sudden, Jack was by his side, drawing him in for a side hug, hand tousled in his hair. Alex was never one for open displays of affection, but even Ian had discovered that his nephew found such an expression comforting. Neither his uncle nor Jack patronized him by cooing or overcompensating with nonsensical sounds, and even now, Jack settled for carding her hand gently through his hair.

“I can’t explain why,” Alex uttered quietly.

“Can you try?”

Alex pulled away and gnawed at his lip. The entire trip home, he had tried to think of words that would explain his sudden desire to accept a mission from the people who forced him into danger. He traced the fielded marble of the counter, as if he were painting the mottled stains with his fingertips. “It’s just—this feeling. I know it’s dangerous. I know I’ve spent months hating Blunt and MI6 for forcing me into this life. But…this time it’s—I’m in control. _I_ took it this far, _I_ have a chance to save them, and _I_ ’m the one in control.” He scrubbed at his forehead, distantly aware that his explanation was lacking in many regards but lacking any way to improve upon it. He already felt like he was pitifully echoing Spiderman’s mantra. “So, I agreed to go to Russia, to Moscow. But I won’t be alone.”

“Oh?”

“Ben. Asked for another secondment so he could go with me.” Alex paused thoughtfully, “and demanded we get a support team.”

Jack pursed her lips, tapping her finger on the counter. “I guess he can’t be all that bad,” she admitted. She sighed and wandered to the stovetop, pouring what was left of the hot chocolate into a third mug. Her movements were crisp and resigned, much like her attitude had been when Alex had followed through with his investigation of Damian Cray. That was how he realized she wouldn’t fight him on going—as much as she detested the situation, she wouldn’t stand in his way, knowing that Alex would go through with it regardless.

“I called my mom,” she said, leaning against the sink, “I’m not going to D.C.”

“Jack…”

“If you think for one minute that I’m gonna go flit off to Neverland while you’re off fighting some Russian bear, think again, mister.” She grinned at him, trying to alleviate any guilt he may have on the subject. “Nope, I’m gonna be right here, a crappy cup of tea waiting for you and many, many bad Hollywood movies to boot.”

A smile fought its way across his face, and he sipped at the lukewarm chocolate. “Sounds perfect.”

She cocked her head musingly. “So, Russia?”

Alex hummed. “Maybe this time I’ll be able to get you a proper souvenir. A nestling doll or one of those fur hats.”

Jack huffed a laugh and moved from the kitchen towards the sitting room. She plopped down onto the sofa and gestured for Alex to join her. Since he wouldn’t be leaving until the next day, they had the time to relax and pretend as if they were anybody else. It did no good to dwell on future worries, and Alex was all too happy to joke instead of giving out the specifics of the mission.

“Oh, maybe you can try borscht too. I’ve always wanted to try it, but I hate beets. And turnips. And sour cream.” Jack grinned.

Burrowing deeper into the sofa cushions, Alex snorted. “Somehow I don’t reckon you’d like borscht.”

Jack shrugged and followed his example, sinking into the corner and throwing a plaid blanket over herself with a flourish. They spent the rest of the night aimlessly chatting, eating frozen pizza, and amusing themselves with a Russian film—to get Alex in the right frame of mind, Jack had stated. The movie they decided on was called _The Irony of Fate_ , a comedy that was equal parts hilarious and absurd. Three hours later, the credits rolled around, and neither wanted to get up from the sofa. Jack made the executive decision of sleeping there for the night. She flicked off the lights and threw an extra blanket over Alex, putting on another old classic and muting it. Alex fell asleep to the calming flashes of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.

When he woke up eight hours later, just shy of seven o’clock, he was shocked to find he slept the whole night without a single bad dream. In fact, he couldn’t recall what his dream had been. Careful not to wake Jack, who was sprawled out awkwardly with one arm brushing the floor, Alex stretched out the cricks and cramps from sleeping on a couch all night.

Ben, after Alex had declared he was going home for the night, agreed to pick him up at 0700 hours, so Alex had only a few minutes to quickly shower and change into a jumper and blue jeans. The Mjölnir necklace hung underneath the knitted fabric, a cooling touch against his skin. He slipped on the bulletproof jacket, and he was ready. Alex inhaled. Simmering nerves burned in his gut, but it wasn’t fear—not entirely. It ate away at his hunger, even though he knew he should eat something as his missions rarely gave him the opportunity to sit down for a proper meal. Although, it was entirely possible this one would be different; Ben had made sure of that.

Someone knocked on the front door.

Alex checked the time and was unsurprised to find that the soldier arrived exactly on time. He had probably been waiting on the doorstep waiting for the right moment, Alex mused dryly. However, he didn’t take long to open the door and gesture that he’d be outside in a moment. MI6 was supplying everything—a car, the tickets, as well as any clothes and equipment they may need—which meant that all he had left to do was say goodbye to Jack. Alex walked silently back to the sofa, perching on the edge, and gently shook her shoulder.

“Jack?”

Jack hummed, half awake.

“Jack, Ben’s here. I have to go.”

Green eyes blinked up at him, slowly coming back to the conscious world. She stared uncomprehendingly at first, then quietly and alertly. She sat up and threw her arms around him tightly. “Be careful,” she whispered. She brushed a few loose strands of hair away from his forehead and smiled sadly. “Try not to do anything too stupid?”

Alex grinned lopsidedly. “No promises.” He squeezed her hand once and stood up. “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you in a week or two.”

She bit her lip, following behind him with padded footsteps. Alex didn’t turn back, not until he had slid into the black Ford Fusion Hybrid. He watched her remain there on the threshold until they turned the corner, and his house in Chelsea vanished from view.

* * *

“How’s it coming along?”

Alex glanced up from the files he was reading to see a takeaway cup of coffee in his direct line of sight, and behind the proffered beverage was Ben’s overly bright face. The two were sat at the gate for their plane, awaiting the time when the flight attendants would announce their boarding section. After the car had dropped them at Heathrow, Ben and Alex had made their way through security without so much as a second glance, leaving Alex to briefly wonder if SIS regularly interfered with British Airport Security in order to ensure agents were left unhindered. Having passed through security with enough time to have a proper sit-down, Alex had settled into a rather uncomfortable chair and opened the papers containing the details of his alias, whilst Ben wandered off to find food that at least appeared edible.

Alex shrugged. “Fine. It’s not the first cover I’ve had to learn.”

Ben collapsed into the neighboring chair and groaned. Even Alex found the seats too small to find any semblance of comfort, and he was a good half a foot shorter than the soldier; he must have been miserable. Ben shuffled unhappily for a moment before resignedly digging through the paper bag for whatever he had purchased. He took out two pastries, those puffy squares filled with various fruit jams and sweet cheeses, and held one out to Alex, who took it gratefully. However, unwilling to admit it, he regretted not having eaten anything earlier. Alex nibbled at the red conserve curiously. Cherry.

Ben took a bite of his own, washing it down with gulp of black coffee. “Did ASIS actually give you an alias? It seemed like you and Ash were simply pretending to be run-of-the-mill refugees.”

There were barely a handful of other passengers at the gate, all of whom were so scattered about the clustered rows of benches that there was no fear of being overheard. Still, Alex glanced around once, confirming no one had shifted since he sat down. The family of five he had noticed earlier were crowded in the corner, the youngest two children using their parents as pillows whilst the eldest played on her iPod. A few lone businessmen were scattered around the terminal, each trying to maintain as much distance as possible from the others. None had moved any closer to the two spies, and there was enough white noise echoing the hall that, as long as their voices stayed at a whisper, the conversation would remain unheard.

“No,” Alex admitted, “but my first mission with MI6, I had to pretend to be this kid who’d won a competition. I may have butchered that, come to think of it.” He was loath to remember how horribly he had blundered his first meeting with Herod Sayle. All that time spent memorizing the details of Felix Lester’s life, and he automatically had resorted to his own name. “But the second time around, I managed well enough.” The trouble at Point Blanc had certainly not been caused by a mistake with his alias, he remarked darkly.

Ben swallowed the rest of his pastry and looked longingly at the empty bag. “Do I want to ask?”

Alex shrugged. “Probably not.”

“How many missions have you done for SIS?” Ben tapped his cardboard cup absently, trying to appear casual, indifferent.

“A few,” he responded and pointedly returned to his reading. He had it memorized completely already; Smithers hadn’t been lying when he’d said the covers were the bare minimum. With the FSB on their side, there wasn’t much reason to go too far into depth. Any official documents were barebone or nonexistent, and they most likely wouldn’t stand up to intense examination. Sasha Adler was a normal fourteen-year-old boy, with mediocre marks, a small group of friends, and an adorable dog—a husky-shepherd mix named Ritter. He, his father Elias Adler, and his mother Elena Ilyinichna Solokova traveled to a different country each year, taking care to teach him English. Until recently, he attended Eckener-Oberschule in Berlin and was the captain of the football team, but a week ago, his parents were killed in an automobile accident. Alex concluded that perhaps Blunt did have a sense of humor, only not one that most people would approve of. Due to the death of Sasha’s parents, he was forced to move in with his only living relative, his uncle, who was a lawyer in Moscow.

“Who is this uncle I’m supposed to be moving in with?” Alex asked, taking a sip of his own coffee.

Ben quirked an eyebrow. “ _Kak_ _ty_ _dumaesh’_?” _Who do you think?_ He dug through his jacket pocket and offered a bright red booklet. The front was decorated in fine gold writing that read _Russkaya_ _Federatsiya_ , a double-headed eagle stamped in the center. So, Alex had been correct in thinking that at least one of their alias’ had to be a Russian citizen. He flipped open the passport to the ID and saw Ben’s photograph next to the name Venyamin Illyich Solokov.

“I couldn’t’ve let my only nephew deal with moving to a new country all on his own, now could I?” Ben grinned.

“S’pose not.” Alex gestured bemusedly, “I don’t usually have a partner on my missions, is all. This is all sort of new territory for me,” he explained. He handed back the passport and tucked away the files into his bag. He took another sip of coffee, the cooling temperature making the liquid bitterer and less palatable than it had been before.

Ben regarded him strangely. “What, never?”

“Not usually,” Alex shook his head. Although he had worked with the two CIA agents at the start of the mission in Skeleton Keyes, but their untimely deaths quickly left Alex on his own. Wishing to move away from anything relating to his past missions, Alex asked, “also…kannst du Deutsch?” _So…do you know German?_

Ben faltered at the sudden change but, to his credit, didn’t question it. “Ja, ein bisschen.“ _Yes, a bit._

His accent, from the few words spoken, sounded native enough, but Alex was willing to be that German was not Ben's preferred foreign language. He grinned wryly. "Wie vie ist ein bisschen? Ehto wichtig zu wissen potomu, chto kogda wir v rossiyu ankommen, my irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit govorit' nuzhno werden." _How much is a little? It's important know because when we get to Russia, we're going to have to talk in public at some point._ Alex watched humorously as Ben worked through the mismatch of German and Russian. Although his Russian may be at a fairly low level, he knew enough to adapt both to the corresponding German grammar rules. If he was going to play at a native German speaker in a foreign country, he had a reasonable guess as to how to maintain that mirage.

“ _My nye dolzhny govorit’ po-angliiskii_ ,” Ben enunciated the words carefully. _We shouldn’t speak any English_. “Versuch auf Russisch zu sprechen, aber wenn du ein Wort nicht weiss…dann sag mir es auf Deutsch.“ _Try to speak Russian, but if there is a word you don’t know…then say it in German._

Again, Alex noted that the pronunciation was perfect, if a little Swiss, but the stilted manner of figuring out the correct words and proper syntax gave him away.

“I’m much more comfortable in Russian,” Ben conceded. He absentmindedly checked his watch and glanced at the boarding doors, which had recently opened for the flight crew. “Now if they had made you French, I’d have no problem keeping up with your code-switching.”

“Ou as tu appris le français?” _Where did you learn French?_

Ben laughed. “Of course. Pourquoi je ne suis pas surpris?” _Why am I not surprised?_

Heat rose to Alex’s cheeks. It wasn’t often he allowed himself to show off; he didn’t like that sort of attention, but this felt less like boasting to schoolmates and more like a friendly competition, like the ones he used to have with Ian. Alex scrubbed at the back of his head and admitted, “my uncle really pushed for me to learn foreign languages. Made it a sort of game, when I was a kid.”

“C’est chouette. Utile. Alors, euh, combien connais-tu le russe en fait?” _That’s cool. Useful. So, er, how much Russian do you actually know?_

“Probablement, nicht genug…” _Probably, not enough…_ He may not have been facing Ben, but he could imagine the slight frown that pulled at the man's face. Alex had grown accustomed to being at a disadvantage on his missions—having had to rely on Ash the entirety of their journey through Southern Asia—but Ben didn't know that. He seemed to have developed a need to protect Alex. Although to be fair, Alex thought, that probably stemmed from having lost track of him for three days on their last mission only to find him, looking like a beaten and drowned cat.

Overhead, the flight attendant announced that Lufthansa flight 6143 was now boarding. Immediately, the other passengers gathered their belongings and swarmed the desk. Over the last few minutes, more people had arrived for the 09:13 flight to Berlin, but still the aeroplane would be flying below capacity. Not that any of the passengers would mind; there were so few people that they would likely be able to spread out. Alex sent a cursory look around the area, making sure nothing had fallen from his rucksack, then fell in line behind Ben. The queue progressed quickly, and soon enough, Alex and Ben were seated toward the middle of the aircraft, uncomfortably warm in their winter gear and close quarters. As he had predicted, the plane was barely over half-full, most of the individual passengers scattered among the various window seats, the families with young children already deeply enthralled in their electronic devices.

Alex searched each of their faces instinctively, just as he had done in the terminal. Ben saw him looking and guessed the thoughts that were clamoring through the young man’s head. He nudged his shoulder, then again but hard enough to gain his attention. “Sasha, beruhig dich _. Vsyo xorosho_.” _Sasha, calm down. Everything’s okay._ Now in such a confined space, they were forced to maintain their cover for the duration of the flight, possibly even until they arrived at their safehouse in Moscow. For the foreseeable future, Alex was now Sasha Adler.

Alex nodded, gnawing at his thumbnail. “Ich weiss.” _I know_. The pressure to check for familiar, threatening faces still present in the back of his mind. It would take a while for him to get used to the fact he was not alone, that he had someone watching his back.

At the front of the plane, a blonde flight attendant began to go through the motions of the safety protocol disinterestedly. Her eyes stared sightlessly down the aisle as she over exaggerated the action of tugging on a floatation vest. Her colleague gave the instructions first in German then in English, but it was clear no one was actually listening. Ben had reclined further into his seat, his eyes already shut, and Alex was tempted to do the same. He knew from past experiences with Ian that a flight to Berlin only lasted about two hours. After that Berlin to Moscow would then be another two to three hours. If he spent the flights sleeping, however, he would unlikely be able to sleep later that night, but then again, there wasn’t much to do on the flight when he could only speak Russian and German. MI6—or more likely Smithers—had provided him with a German-Russian textbook, but that was even less appealing than staring out the window for the duration of the trip. So, Alex compromised: he would sleep the first flight and stay awake the second. After all, he reasoned, he would have still been sleeping had he been home in his own bed.

He burrowed deeper into the grey seat, rested his head against the cool cabin wall, and closed his eyes, eventually drifting off to the lulling sound of the engine.

* * *

_Transliteration and Translation:_

_Мафия = m **a** fiya = mafia_

_Воры в законе = v **o** ry v zak **o** ne = thieves in law_

_Престунпые (Пресутпная група) = prest **u** pnye (prestupn **ay** a gr **u** pa) = criminal group_

_Александр Елиасович Адлер = Aleks **a** ndr El **i** asovich **A** dler_

_Ирония судьбы = ir **o** niya sudb **y** = The Irony of Fate_

_Как ты думаешь = Kak_ _ty_ _dumaesh' = (lit. how do you think) who/what do you think_

 _Русская Федерация = Russk **ay** a_ _Feder **a** tsiya = _Russian Federation

Венямин Ильич Солоков = Venyamin Ill'ich Solokov = Benjamin

Wie viel ist ein bisschen? Это wichtig zu wissen потому, что когда wir в Россию ankommen, мы irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit говорить нужно werden =

Wie vie ist ein bisschen? Ehto wichtig zu wissen potomu, chto kogda wir v rossiyu ankommen, my irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit govorit' nuzhno werden =

How much is a little? It's important know because when we get to Russia, we're going to have to talk in public at some point

Wie viel ist ein bisschen? Es ist wichtig zu wissen, weil, wenn wir nach Russland ankommen, wir irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit reden müssen werden =

Сколько это мало? Это важно знать, потому что, когда мы прилетаем в Россию, в какой-то момент нам будет нужно говорить публично. =

Мы не должны говорить по-английски = My _nye dolzhny govorit' po-angliiski = we shouldn't speak English_


	8. A City of Tales and Myths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise action is coming in the next chapters, but the investigation is on-going and picking up speed  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> If anyone is confused about names/nicknames in Russian, here's a lowdown:  
> In Russian culture, there are three names: first, patronymic, surname
> 
> The first is a given name (generally a Slavic name due to the declensions and case system in the language), the middle/patronymic/очество is derived from the father's name (father + ovich/evich for a male, father + ovna/evna for a female) and the surname  
> They do not use Mr. / Mrs. /Ms. (it technically exists but they don't use it) so to show respect and address someone, they will typically use the first full name and the patronymic (ex. Veniamin Ilyich (Veniamin son of Ilya))
> 
> Nicknames are generally reserved for family and friends and have many variations depending on the closeness of the relationship. Katya is for friends and closer/close-ish colleagues; Sasha is the same (it's personal preference sometimes). Alyosha/Lyosha is actually a nickname for Alexei and not Aleksandr, which, despite coming from the same root, are different names entirely. Using these names without permission (especially the 'cuter' versions like Katyusha, Sashechka, etc) is extremely rude. There are also pejorative endings for names (Ven'ka, Sashka, etc) for scolding someone or purposefully being rude.
> 
> I absolutely love the Russian language and culture, so I am trying to insert as much of an accurate portrayal as I can  
> Also my OC FSB agent will not be a major character

By the time they arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo, faintly illuminated by the city's inhabitants. Flurries of sparkling snow drifted down from the sky, although it did nothing to add to the icy banks already strewn across the ground. Between the constant sweeping and care of the ground crew and the heat from the planes arriving and taking off, the snow never had a chance to build on the tarmac. Long tendrils of ice hung dangerously from the eaves and ledges of the expansive glass wall that comprised the entrance of the lobby. Dozens of passenger cars, chauffeurs and taxis, and public busses loitered in the drive, adding to the billowing cloud of exhaust and frozen condensation. Inside the arrival hall, Alex was forced to stand in a corner of the grand atrium for fear of being trampled by unconcerned travelers determined to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible, no matter who or what was in their way. Ben, as tall as he was, was similarly huddled off to the side, flipping through his phone whilst at the same time scanning the lobby. When Alex had asked—in Russian as they still maintained the ruse of Sasha Adler and Veniamin Solokov—the soldier responded that the bank had arranged transport for them. Sheremetyevo Alexander S. Pushkin International Airport, one of four international airports in Moscow, was located outside of the city proper, and as tolerant as the Russian intelligence agency was of the operation, they were not entirely inclined to allow foreign spies free range of the country.

Alex had nodded and returned to listening to the conversations around him, trying to acclimate to the Russian way of speaking. To his frustration, he found he had to completely focus on the words in order to understand, something he hadn't had to do since he was a child. Russian had no similarities—aside from the occasional transplanted word—to the other languages he had studied, and according to various linguistical experts, it would take 1100 hours, or roughly six years, of studying to become fluent. Alex had only started six months ago.

Ben tapped Alex's shoulder and gestured to move toward a larger crowd of people gathered tightly near the front entrance, most of whom held white placards up above their heads. Alex trailed behind him, playing up the tired teenager forced to endure the tedious formalities of entering a new country. Not that he had to pretend too much; they had spent the entire day traveling and maintaining their aliases, more often than not resorting to code-switching when either of them was unable to continue in their primary language. Ben headed along the outskirts of the throng of individuals towards a young woman, whose own sign was clasped tiredly in one hand. It read in bold hand-written letters СОЛОКОВЫ. _Solokovs_.

The young woman looked to be mid-twenties, although Alex reckoned, she could probably pass for someone older or younger depending on how she presented herself. A dark, fitted blazer, her hair pulled back in a show of professionalism, she blended in well with the other individuals, whose jobs it was to disappear into the foreground, except for the fact that she had yet to remove her anorak. That was odd in itself given the stifling, swampy heat of the airport atrium, but if she had, everyone would have seen the telltale bulge of a holster and service pistol. Her eyes locked onto the two men as they approached, her lips twitching slightly, as if to smile or scowl.

" _Good evening_ ," Ben said, and Alex focused on the words intently. Between loud the collective din and chatter of the lobby, he doubted he would be able to understand the following conversation, but that didn’t prevent him from trying. Ben, for his part, sounded the part, spewing the words effortlessly, swallowing unnecessary vowels lazily like any native would. “ _Ya dumayu, vy nas ischete. Menya zovut_ Veniamin Ilyich Solokov _. A ehto plemyannik moi_ ,” —He grabbed Alex by the shoulders, and Alex got the impression that was for his sake; this was an introduction— “Aleksandr Adler.”

Alex offered a small, timid smile as the woman’s piercing gaze shifted from Ben to Alex appraisingly. _"_ Ekaterina Nikolaevna Azarova." A small flush colored her cheeks, the only indication that she was uncomfortably warm in the atrium. Her lips twitched in that same small movement, and this time it was clear she felt some amusement. " _Vy znaete,”_ she stepped closer conspiratorially" _chto,_ ' _vse schastlivye semi poxozhi drug na druga'_?"

Ben didn’t blink. " _A 'kazhdaya neschastlivaya sem'ya neschastliva po-svoemu_.'"

They exchanged the words so smoothly and rapidly that that Alex stood there helplessly lost. He recognized a handful of words— _vy znaete_ and _sem’i_ —but even so, he was beginning to realize that his skill was nowhere near the level he would need if he wanted to help on this mission. Blood rushed through his ears deafeningly, and for the first time, he felt prickling doubt pounding in his gut. What had he been thinking? How could he discover what happened to those kids, when he couldn’t even understand two phrases between allies?

Ekaterina Nikolaevna nodded approvingly, her face falling back into a blank expression. She adjusted the thick overcoat before ordering, “ _poshli_ ,” and spinning on her heels. After a moment’s pause, Ben nudged Alex, gently indicating that they were supposed to follow, and guided their way through the collection of individuals loitering just inside the atrium. As they were about to exit into the dark, Moscow night, Ben leaned over and said in a muted tone, “eine Passphrase. Wir wollen nicht, dass ein paar Zivilisten unseren Platz nehmen, oder?“ _A passphrase. We wouldn’t want a couple of civilians to take our place, now would we?_

It was not as cold outside as Alex had expected for a December evening in Moscow, but after the stifling heat of the plane and suffocating mass in the lobby, the fierce drop in temperature had him burrowing deeper into his jacket and tucking his chin into the collar. The air burned as he breathed in. Alex wished he had put on a hat before leaving the building, but then again, he wasn't entirely certain what MI6 had packed in his luggage. Maybe _Sasha Adler_ wasn’t the type to wear unfashionable beanies. Thankfully, they hadn’t thought it necessary to plie him with any more piercings.

Ekaterina Nikolaevna crossed the pavement and led them to a compact SUV parked between a pair of taxis. A thin dusting of snow had drifted down from the roof and garnished the Lada Xray, but already the residual heat from the engine had turned it to spattered drops of water. Alex hopped into the back and immediately secured his seatbelt. With barely a cursory glance out the window, the Russian agent pulled out of the airport drive and sped off to the nearest motorway entrance. After the first particularly sharp turn, Alex's hand shot to the doorhandle and refused to let go.

Soon, they were cruising smoothly, and quite possibly at illegal speeds, down the M11, an enormous motorway stretching all the way from Saint Petersburg to Moscow. Only a few headlights beside their own lit the dreary road, and they were soon left far behind as glowing specks in the rearview mirrors. " _Tak, ladno, my doberyemosya do yavochnoi cherez minut tr—"_

" _Prostite, eh, Ekaterina Nikolaevna,”_ Ben cut with a quickly apologetic look, and gestured to the backseat, where Alex was attempting to hide his lack of discomfort. “ _Vy ne govorite na angliiskom? Prosto ehto,_ Alex _malo govorit po-russkii.”_ _Excuse me, Ekaterina Nikolaevna, do you speak English? Alex doesn't speak a lot of Russian._

 _"_ Oh, eh,” she glanced fleetingly in the rearview mirror and gave Alex that same twitch of a smile. “Of course, _prosti_.” The SUV barreled past an old car and weaved perilously back into the right lane. Alex wished she hadn’t risked the seconds looking in the back mirror. "Eh, we will arrive at the house in around thirty minutes. It is in Krasnogorsky district, so not too close to the center."

Ben seemed to share Alex's discomfort at Ekaterina's driving style, although he hid it well. He had experience driving under fire during his days in the army. His outward demeanor was relaxed, but his knuckles were bloodlessly white from gripping at the seat. "Right. And where is Istraflot's headquarters?" he asked his voice tighter than normal after a slick patch of ice managed to catch the back tires.

"About fifteen-minutes from the safehouse. In Yuzhnoye Tushino District, on the right bank of Reka Moskva."

Another motorist failed to yield and came onto the motorway far slower than the others. Ekaterina handled the SUV deftly into the parallel lane, swearing profusely under her breath. Alex couldn't deny she knew how to handle a car at high speeds under icy conditions; however, that didn't stop the queasiness that arose from being in said car. Her eyes flickered to her passengers, but thankfully, stayed firmly on the road ahead. "You were briefed on the Solntsevskaya Bratva?"

Ben nodded curtly. "Only on the branch operating out of Istraflot and the Vashenko-Chao case. Were you part of any of the original investigation?"

"No." Ekaterina grimaced as if she tasted something bitter. "That was investigated by local police."

"Why do you think Vashenko-Chao’s case is connected then?" Alex asked, sliding towards the gap between the front seats. "She didn't seem to fit the profile of the other victims." Upper class, involved parents, foreign to the city of the abduction, a far cry from little Zoya Arain.

"We cannot certain if it is, "she admitted. "The cameras only caught unclear images of the attack, and physical evidence was minimal. However, Andrei Vashenko is very powerful and very influential man." It was clear to Alex exactly how Ekaterina regarded Vashenko, from the way her nose scrunched slightly and the near acidity in her voice at the mention of his name. "When he learned FSB was looking into the kidnapping of other children, he—made his wants known. We have found some evidence in support of the theory, although it is—circumstantial at best. When your MI6 brought Solntsevskie to our attention, we were able to confirm the presence of some members around the area where Kyra Vashenko was taken. That, and her father has yet to receive any ch-chantage," she frowned. " _Shantazh_ — no contact or demands for money. She simply vanished.”

“Like the others,” Alex muttered. “Have you been able to link any other kidnappings in Russia to ECO?”

“Echo?” Ekaterina frowned in confusion, as if working through the wording to confirm she had understood the question.

“E.C.O.—Elysian Care Organization,” he elaborated. “It’s this international non-profit that is supposed to be helping low-income families but were actually snatching their kids. They had chapter back in London and all over Europe as well. They’re what led us to Istraflot in the first place.”

“I am not familiar with ECO, but it is probable that there are more cases in other republics. Russia has a significantly high rate of kidnapping and human trafficking overall, so it is difficult to differentiate such cases. After Kyra Vashenko went missing, FSB focused much attention on any kidnappings in Piter and Moscow.”

The Lada pulled off the M11 motorway, and then they were in Moscow. Tall residential buildings, colorless and unsightly, stood in clusters, interspersed with streets, desolate strips of construction, and flashes of miniature parks. Gradually, more and more cars and lorries joined them on the road, causing more than a few swerving maneuvers on Ekaterina’s part. As they left the more industrial setting, and with it the cloudy light that provided the means to take in the scenery, she hummed thoughtfully. “Before MI6 made contact, we were drowning in cases, but with their suggested suspects, it became much easier to—cut back unrelated ones.” She shrugged, resting an arm against the driver side window. “At first, Vasil Aleksandrovich refused MI6 request of sending their agents to continue the investigation, but then they promised Alex Rider’s involvement…”

Alex pretended to stare out the window and ignored the sharp glance Ben shot him. The incident with Sarov had led to a sort of infamy in the Russian government, regardless of MI6’s attempts to smother the gossip. He shouldn’t have been surprised that his name had trickled down to the sublevels of different agencies. However, that was another event from this past year he did not want to revisit with a complete stranger, probably not even with Ben. To his immense relief, Ekaterina didn’t delve on the subject, and Ben didn’t force it. Instead, they were left in unpleasant silence, Ben’s eyes flicking to the mirror every few minutes, narrowing at the young man in the back seat.

Eventually, after they had passed a residential neighborhood with quiet roads and more snow-coated forest than buildings, Ekaterina broke the stilted atmosphere to roughly outline the rules and regulations for their stay in Moscow, so Alex allowed his mind to drift, listening unconcernedly. Nearly all of them were intuitive and agonizingly obvious, he couldn’t figure why they had even bothered. Under no circumstances were they to steal state secrets, trespass onto government properties, or abscond to a location without first alerting their supervising agent; put simply, any indication that they had become a perceived threat to the Russian Federation, any protection and cooperation they had enjoyed would be null and void. Alex never had much luck with following rules, but he reckoned those, he could follow.

When the car pulled down a road of dirt old asphalt, Alex stared out his window, not that he could see much with the looming trees and seemingly endless mountains of snow. They passed by a handful of homes, small cabins that ranged from the size of Russian dachas to full-blown hunting cabins with multiple stories. With each passing moment, the surrounding trees, which Alex was beginning to realize was more a forest than a mere spattering of foliage, grew thicker and denser until he barely saw the sky. He wondered why they had chosen this particular safehouse, since it was so far from the centre of Moscow, but then again, it was probably one of the more secure locations. He didn’t have to wait long to satisfy his curiosity.

Ekaterina slowed to a stop in front of a compact, two-story cabin. The exterior was quaint, like someone had pulled it from the pages of a storybook, with dark oaken walls, a sharp-angled roof, and shutters that were reminiscent of a cuckoo clock. Ekaterina waited for them to collect their luggage before trudging through the thick snow towards the side of the house, where a few steps led up to a shielded porch. She eased a key into the rusted locks and pushed open the door. " _Dobro pozhalovat' domoi_." _Welcome home_.

Alex was the first to step inside, expecting the air to be frigid and musty given the log exterior. He, however, was pleasantly surprised by the slight fir flavor and crisp air. It was cold and dark, but not depressingly so. Flicking on the lights he was greeted with a modernly furnished cabin, complete with a collection of sofas and armchairs laden with piles of warm blankets and throws. A television stood atop a small, wooden table; books, their spines creased and worn into oblivion, lined its shelves. Along the far wall was a brick fireplace, logs and kindling already stacked pristinely on the stand.

Ben wandered in quietly, taking in the picturesque interior with an appreciative expression. He had slipped his heavy boots off on the porch, and Alex followed suit before he dragged slush and dirt all throughout the cabin, noting Ekaterina had done the same, although she now sported a pair of moccasins. Right next to the threshold were a collection of similar looking slippers, and Alex distantly remembered _tapochki_ from the clothing chapter in his Russian textbook. Many Russian households offered their guests slippers, serving the dual purpose of keeping the house clean from a constant parade of slush-laden boots and their guests’ feet warm. Alex slid on a pair of _tapochki_ roughly his own size and reveled in the immediate warmth.

He roamed through the lounge, drawing a hand along one of the softer looking blankets, and walked into the kitchen. Everything, from the floor to the individually carved cabinets in the kitchen, was made from the same lightly stained wood. Alex opened a few of the drawers and cupboards experimentally and found that nearly every one had been packed with foodstuffs and non-perishables. Canned goods and jars of pickled _everything_ lined the shelves. The fridge was similarly stocked but with fresh, packaged meat and bundles of vegetables. If it weren't so cold inside, Alex would have thought the cabin was already inhabited.

"FSB owns many apartments and houses throughout Moscow," a softly accented voice stated. Alex spun to find Ekaterina kneeling in front of the fireplace, gently encouraging the kindling to catch. “When it is known that one will be used, food and basic supplies are provided before their arrival.” 

Alex took a moment to study the FSB agent; between Hollywood vilifying the intelligence agency and his own first impressions after the events involving Sarov, his concept of Russian agents was unfairly biased. And now that he had his own tarnished James Bond experiences, he knew for a fact that media was rarely fair to reality. The first thing he noted was that Ekaterina was younger than he had first assumed. At Sheremetyevo airport, she had held herself with complete stolidity and professionalism that she had appeared to be in her late twenties, but now, with her dirty blonde hair threatening to escape from a messy bun and the soft smile as she nurtured the fire into existence, she looked closer to Ben's own age.

With a triumphant hum, Ekaterina sat back against the stone hearth and slid the protective grating before the budding flames. She caught him looking, and the smile shifted into curious frown. Alex quickly turned back to the cabinets and picked up a bag that was filled with what looked to be mini bagels about the size of a shilling. The label read _sushki_ , but it wasn’t anything he was familiar with. Looking at the variety of food, though, made him painfully aware that the stuffed Bretzels he and Ben had bought in Berlin had been many hours ago.

Ekaterina joined him in the kitchen, settling herself on the other side of the table, and gestured to the bag in his hand. “You should try some. I believe you call _sushki,_ eh, tea cookies. _Vkusno_.”

Alex ripped the bag and took one hesitantly, nibbling the side; it tasted sweet, like pound cake hardened into a biscuit. He held out the bag to her, and Ekaterina took one for herself. Her gaze trailed over Alex’s shoulder, down the hallway, which presumably led to the stairs and bedrooms, then back to his face. “So, you are Alex Rider?”

The question was asked just as he had shoved the last of his _sushki_ into his mouth. Alex paused, fighting to keep the curiosity and hesitancy from showing on his face, and swallowed. He nodded.

“You aren’t what I expected.”

Alex gave a gruff laugh. If he got a penny every time that he heard that phrase… “Let me guess. You were expecting someone older?”

She hummed thoughtfully and shook her head. “No, the rumors were clear enough. A boy brought General Sarov to the knees and, with him, plans to destroy almost the whole world.” Her finger gently traced the inside of her wrist, habitually. Alex didn’t think she knew she was even doing it.

“Then what is it?”

“Honestly speaking, I don’t know. I guess you cannot really have expectation of a child spy, Alyosha.”

 _Alyosha_. The name gave him pause. He knew the basic convention behind Russian names, that Sasha was a diminutive of Aleksandr and generally reserved for friends and family, but he’d never heard Alyosha before. Alex scoured Ekaterina’s face for a hint, but her features were schooled, if not a little appraising. Her blue eyes were pensive, distracted. Her brow was furrowed, drawn in with an emotion Alex couldn’t identify; it was almost as if she were searching for something. Then she straightened, and the tension vanished, like it had never been there at all. She took another biscuit.

“MI6 mentioned that one of you would need help with an accent, but I do not think Veniamin is in need of it…”

Right. His accent. Alex had almost forgotten, with all the traveling and battering of the day. “I—Yeah. I'm meant to be a German native. So, they thought I should I have the proper accent in Russian as well…" He didn’t mention that since arriving in Russia, he didn’t think it would matter what his accent was if he couldn’t even hold a basic conversation.

"And you speak German, yes?"

“Yes…”

Ekaterina rested her forearms against the table as she regarded him contemplatively. " _Naskol'ko ty znaesh' russkii_?" 

If he hadn’t been expecting the switch in language, Alex imagined his expression would have revealed just how little Russian he actually knew. However, he had anticipated the question; it was the first step in any type of instruction—what his starting point was, his baseline of knowledge.

“ _Malo. Ya znayu padezhi, no ne znayu mnogo slov. Mne trudno potomu, chto ya khochu…”_ he growled in frustration when the word he needed was missing. “Ich will in der Lage sein, so zu sprechen wie ich auf Englisch.“ _A little. I know the cases, but I don’t know a lot of words. It’s difficult because I want…_ _I want to be able to speak like I do in English._ He hated how strange and cumbersome it felt to create the unique sounds of Russian, especially in comparison to the ease with which he was able to replicate those in French or German or Spanish. "Ben, or Veniamin Solokov rather, is a native Russian speaker, so I've got to be able to speak with him in public. Or at least, not oust us as spies the moment I open my mouth."

"Your pronunciation is not horrible," Ekaterina mused out loud. "For your ability, not bad at all. You do sound like anglophone. But…I do not think that will not be difficult to change."

"What won't be difficult to change?" Ben asked, appearing in the hallway.

"My accent. Were you aware that I sound like an anglophone?"

Ben’s lips twitched, but he answered in all sincerity. “Funny enough, the thought did occur to me.” Ben turned to Ekaterina, his tone taking on a more professional edge, much like the one he had used when speaking with ASIS soldiers on the Dragon Nine raid. “We appreciate your company’s hospitality. Mrs. Jones asked me to pass along her thanks.”

Ekaterina bowed her head in acknowledgement, the previous reserved demeanor sliding back into place. “They were happy to oblige.” Her eyes flicked to Alex, and he read the underlying message: _because of me_. “The sooner we find the person responsible, the better.”

Ben nodded gravely and glanced over the kitchen with mild interest, his eyes settling on the open but forgotten bag of biscuits. He dragged a hand across the nape of his neck. “So, what is your role in this? Are you going to join us in the field, or…?”

Ekaterina gave a one-shouldered shrug. “As I said, I am your liaison. When you make a discovery, you tell me, and I tell my superior. Other than this, you are free to operate as you would normally. The car”—she rooted around her trouser pockets, coming up with two sets of keys, and offered them out to Ben— “is for you to use, within reason. As agreed by our superiors, your men are permitted to bring their own equipment, but if there is anything else you need, just tell me.”

Alex started. He had honestly forgotten that he would be getting backup _before_ something went wrong—a novel concept. He wondered vaguely if Ben already knew who would be joining them, given that the older agent seemed to have access to more of the operation’s details. Alex figured it would be most likely one or two SIS agents whom he had never met before. Despite his many past assignments, he never really came into contact with many other British agents before Ben. That, and most other agents he did work with had the misfortune of being shot or meeting their end in very nasty ways.

“Tomorrow morning, I will take you to Istraflot so you may—eh, as you say—comb the area. Then—” The chiming of a mobile cut through whatever she was going to say. She frowned and fished through her jacket until she found the device. “ _Prostite_. Eh, after Istraflot, I will leave you to do what it is you do. Do you have questions?”

“Would you be able to teach me _systema_?” Although not exactly what she was asking for, the question gave the perfect opening for a thought that had first occurred to Alex all the way back in London, after Ben had put a name to the unique style of fighting Jason and his lackeys had used. The strange bend to the arms and unwieldy movements—none of which tracked with what he had learned from his years studying Karate. Alex had replayed the fight over and over in his mind, analyzing each of the strikes and stances, and had quickly decided that if he wanted to know how to defend against it, he had to learn the fundamentals.

Alex watched as his request caught both Ekaterina and Ben off-guard. Ekaterina blinked with a thoroughly bemused look, a slight part to her lips. "Eh, _systema_ is not something you learn overnight, Alex,” she responded haltingly, the same time Ben protested, “I don't think that's such a good idea…”

Alex felt a spike of irritation at the words. Either Ben wanted Alex to be able to protect himself or not, he couldn’t have it both ways. "You said it yourself, systema is brutal," he pointed out, "and if I'm going to fight someone with that type of training, I need to understand the basics. I’ve studied Karate and Krav Maga, so I’ve got a base to build on."

Ekaterina pursed her lips but nodded nonetheless, catching the sharp look Ben threw her way. "I can teach you some,” she responded slowly. “I am not a expert, but I know it well enough to give some instruction in fundamentals.”

Alex wondered if requesting a gun as well would push his luck. He took in Ben’s slightly furrowed brow, crossed arms, and forcibly relaxed stance, and he mentally shook his head. Not only was MI6, for all intents and purposes, running the op, but Ben would never let him keep it. He didn’t even know Alex was proficient in firearms, so there was no reason for him to believe that Alex wouldn’t accidentally shoot off his own foot.

Ben shook his head with a disbelieving, sardonic smile but didn’t press the issue. “I’m assuming the safehouse has all the latest security measures?”

“Yes,” Ekaterina replied. She shuffled around the kitchen briefly and rooted through a few of the drawers until she found a pad of paper and pen. She scribbled down a few notes, spun the pad around on the table for Ben to see. “Here is the code to the system. It activates movement sensors around the property and sends the alert to FSB headquarters. That,” she pointed to the second line of numbers, “is my number.” With a wry smile, she added, “try not to call unless absolutely necessary, yes?”

She met Ben’s eyes questioningly, and he shook his head, silently confirming he didn’t have anything more to ask. Ekaterina moved towards the side porch, where they had entered from, and knocked aside one of the unexceptional landscapes that dotted the walls. Behind it was a small electronic panel—controls to the security system. Letting the painting fall back to its place, she slid on her shoes and her enormous jacket. “ _Spokoinoi nochi, Veniamin, Lyosha_." _Goodnight, Benjamin, Alex_.

Ben waited until the door latched shut before letting out the heavy sigh he'd been holding back, wrinkling his nose in distaste. " _Systema_ , really?"

Alex shrugged, undeterred. His reasoning was sound, and Ben knew that. If Alex was going to survive this world of spies and villains, he was going to do all that he could and learn every trick in the book. Ben shook his head with an amused smile and turned to peruse through the kitchen cupboards, though he seemed less than thrilled by what he found. "Everything's pickled," he muttered peevishly.

Alex laughed. He gestured to the fridge with a wave of his hand. "There's some fresh meat and vegetables in the fridge. Probably have the proper ingredients for borscht."

Ben grimaced. "That might be even worse."

"Or…" Alex went about the different cupboards, trying to relocate the bags of pasta he had seen earlier, "…we could make pasta?" He found them on the second try, humming in satisfaction when he came across a few jars of tomato sauce as well. Plain pasta and tomato sauce might not be the most nutritious meal, but Alex found the idea of cutting up and preparing vegetables rather unappealing given how tired he was feeling.

“That sounds good,” Ben agreed and tiredly dug around for a pot, filling it with water and flicking on the stove. The entire scene was just so domestic and foreign at the same time, Alex barely held back a smirk. He cracked open one of the jars and poured the contents into one of the smaller pots that hung on the wall.

"You know," Ben stated casually, leaning over the water, watching the mass of baby bubbles simmer on the bottom of the pot, "eventually you're going to have to tell me."

Alex cocked an eyebrow. "Tell you what?"

Ben copied the movement dryly, shaking his head as if it should have been obvious. He gestured widely to the cabin that was theirs for the time being, eerily silent aside from the faint crackling emanating from the hearth. “Take your pick, _Cub_.”

Alex stirred the red sauce distractedly and watched Ben out of the corner of his eyes. Already, he had turned back to the stove, mindfully lowering the temperature when the foaming water had begun to reach for the brim of the pot. Ben opened the fridge and rooted around the inside curiously. He pulled out a few bottles with a frown as he read the labels, putting them back in their place then repeating the process, doing anything to avoid staring down Alex. He was curious, undoubtedly, and probably more than a little frustrated by the enigma that was MI6’s youngest spy, but he wasn't going to force it aside from prompting him every now and then.

Alex felt the odd prickling of guilt in the back of his throat. Ben had willingly followed him around London on a hunch then _volunteered_ for another secondment while still on medical leave, all without knowing anything about Alex. Sure, he trained with Cub, rescued him from an underground fight club, but there was nothing in those experiences that would create more than a deadly curiosity. At first, Alex had thought Ben was just invested in keeping him alive, wanted to satisfy the burning curiosity, but a faint tingling in the back of Alex’s mind told him differently.

"They,” Alex cleared his throat harshly. His eyes never left the stove. “They sent me to Brecon Beacons before my first mission. For training.”

Ben wanted to say more, opening his mouth to do just that, but thought better of it. He knew he couldn’t demand answers all at once, and it came as a surprise that Alex divulged the information for begin with. Instead, he moved on and accepted the information with a nod. The corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Bet you a fiver you can’t find the bowls on your first try.”

Alex took in the wall of cupboards and cabinets and scrounged his memory from his first purview of the kitchen. He grinned. “You’re on.”

* * *

True to her word, Ekaterina came knocking early the next morning. By half past ten, they had parked their car, a different one than what Ekaterina had given them the day prior, in an abandoned shed that thankfully allowed for a passable view of Istraflot. It was a much larger operation than that in England, the building itself an enormous storage facility capable of housing thousands of shipments to and from Moscow. The land-based loading bay was a constant flurry of commotion as workers trudged through the snow, packing lorries and emptying even larger freight trucks, whilst the dock, covered with snow and ice, was stationed in the back. As it was winter, the only workers putting it to use were those looking for a place somewhat protected from the wind and snow where they could smoke uninterrupted. A group of men were already crowded off to the side by late morning, wrapped in bulging jackets, but none of them seemed overly bothered by the freezing temperatures or the fact that a dusting of snow drifted down atop of them every time the wind blew.

The shed Ekaterina had commandeered stood on the edge of the embankment of the Moskva. It had probably been a storage or maintenance shack for the ancient railroad bridge that stretched across the frozen waters, but the tracks had fallen into disrepair, the metal rusted and eaten away. Judging from the deep tracks carved into the snow, however, locals still traversed it frequently. Inside the shed, Alex huddled on top of the old Lada, which had probably had its prime back during the Soviet Union, and clasped his hands under his arms. A compact portable heater stood in the corner, but the winter air tore through the pathetic wooden walls and stole whatever warmth it managed to create. Not for the first time that morning, Alex wished he were still in bed. He huffed silently, counting the seconds it took for his clouded breath to disappear.

Ekaterina was leant against the far wall, comparably curled in on herself from the cold, and was peering through the dusted window. Whilst they didn't expect to find anything incriminating on their first surveillance, they had come prepared with a Panasonic LUMIX camera, capable of taking 30 frames per minute. Already, the FSB agent had taken a few shots, the shutter fluttering impossibly fast as it captured crystal clear images from 500 meters. Ben stood beside her, a pair of binoculars nearly glued to his face.

"There. Look," he said. He jabbed a finger against the glass, but Alex didn't budge from his spot on the bonnet. Between the three of them, they only had one camera and set of binoculars, all of which were in use. "I count seven armed guards."

"Eight," Ekaterina corrected. "Red jacket by the trolly."

Ben swore, although neither he nor Alex were at all surprised. There had always been a possibility that more than half of the employees were armed and weren’t even the designated security officers. Criminal enterprises tended to stay within the family, meaning, in this case, many of Istraflot's personnel belonged to the mafia. Guns and knives tended to be a given.

"You know," Alex proposed, "if you're worried about being outnumbered, you could always give me a gun."

Ben snorted from behind the binocs. "I'm fairly certain the sarge didn't even let you near the firing range, let alone handle a gun."

Alex huffed; he hadn't entirely been joking despite his flippant tone. Not to mention, he was very proficient at many different types of firearms; Scorpia had seen to that. Every shot he had taken had found its mark—that is, as long as it wasn't shaped as a human.

"Right." Ben finally dropped the binoculars and blew into his hands harshly. "I'm going to walk the perimeter and see if there's anything on the other side we should know about." He gave Alex a meaningful look, one that he met with owlish, innocent eyes. "Don't wander off and do something stupid, yeah?"

"I take offense to that."

With an amused shake of the head, Ben slipped out silently, the door left quaking in his wake, allowing short bursts of frigid air to taint the slight warmth that had begun to collect inside the shed. Alex drummed his fingers along the metal of the ancient bonnet, wondering if the FSB had a garage full of archaic vehicles to fit every occasion. The model was ostensibly inconspicuous, much more so than the larger, official-looking SUV that they had used the day before; the Lada Xray would never have been able to fit inside this shed, anyways.

Alex tore at the jagged end of his thumb nail. He felt like he should be doing something to help but doubted Ben would appreciate him wandering off their second day. With his luck, he would probably come across a trigger-happy guard on patrol. Instead, . Ekaterina had yet to move from her post by the window, using the camera to examine the workers and security measure at the warehouse. She shifted her weight, stamping her feet to return some warmth to them and ease the tightness from standing in one position for so long.

"Ekaterina Nikolaevna?" Alex waited to continue until she acknowledged the fact he had spoken, even if just momentarily. "Do they, the Solntsevskaya, know about what happened to the Istraflot in London? Won't they know they've been compromised?"

Ekaterina tilted her head and pondered the question for a moment, letting the camera fall away from her face. "They do know," she answered slowly, "that their people in London are arrested. However, the police stated that they intercepted an illegal shipment of weapons. Companies, like Istraflot, know the risks of their trade, so when one of their companies are exposed, it is not such a surprise. And likely, they have many more—eh,” she scrunched her face in an irked pout, squinting out the window as she wracked her brain for the correct word. She clicked her tongue. “Front companies—in England. In any case,” she continued, waving a hand dismissively. "I doubt Pavel Bradlik cares much for the loss."

"Pavel Bradlik? Isn't he the head, or godfather or whatever, of Moscow?"

Ekaterina hummed affirmatively. "The _pakhan_ of the Solntsevskaya, yes, but he is currently somewhere in Southern Italy, entertaining his most recent _devushka_ —A gymnast," she added dryly. She rested her back against the wooden wall despite the slight, worrisome shudder it gave at the movement. Alex watched her hand slide to her wrist, hypnotically tracing a circle against her skin. "No, Istraflot is operated by Pavel’s cousin, Adam Bradlik. He is who we call _avtorityet_. So, he head of his own faction, but he answers to the godfather of Solntsevskaya. The loss of Istraflot is…an inconvenience to Adam’s gang, but it is unlikely he thinks it more than unfortunate.” Ekaterina’s gaze returned to the warehouse down the bank, too distant to see any specifics without the help of her camera. “After all,” she muttered bitterly, her lips twisting fiercely, “ _pakhan_ doesn’t care where or how money is made, only that he receives payment.”

The tone wasn’t lost on Alex. She must have had a personal encounter with the mafia, if not Solntsevskaya then one of the other brotherhoods. He was surprised the FSB assigned her to the investigation if that were the case; an emotional investment was a double-edged sword, and it rarely turned out well for anyone involved in the end. Had there been a tactful way of asking about her involvement, he would have, but every scenario he came up with was likely to receive defensiveness or dismissal, rather than an answer. Alex resolved to bring it up with Ben later on when they were alone.

Until then, he could ask about the FSB’s connection to the mafia without crossing into questionable territory. "Ekaterina Nikolaevna, —?" He broke off, when he saw she bit the side of her lips with amusement. He quirked an eyebrow at her in question.

Ekaterina shifted again along the shed’s wall and tucked her hands inside of her jacket, driving her toes into the dirt-covered floor. "As much as I appreciate sentiment, Alex, you don't need to be so formal,” she explained. “I am not that much older than you, and if we are to work together, you may call me Katya.”

“Is that why you call me Alyosha?”

Ekaterina’s expression didn’t change, not really, but the amusement vanished, along with the eased countenance she’d had the entire morning. She furrowed her brow, ticking her head to the side as if confused, before shrugging one shoulder. “No,” she responded lightly, though the muscle in her jaw twitched. Ekaterina activated the camera’s digital screen and toggled through the photographs she’d taken, and a whispering voice in the back of his mind told Alex to let the subject drop; he’d be a hypocrite if he forced the issue, when he himself barely revealed anything about himself.

Alex rubbed his jacket arms roughly, exhaling a warm breath into cupped hands. His choice to sit on the car bonnet was turning out to be a bad one as the metal sapped away any body warmth he had. He slid off the hood and wandered over to the window, narrowing his eyes to see the details of the building far down the riverbank.

“Who do you think is behind the kidnappings?” he asked. He saw Katya shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“The Bratva always have been involved in human trafficking.” The carefully restrained tone made him look. It was reminiscent of what Ben had told him all those days ago in his flat. _Cases with kids don’t often end well_. Katya must have shared those sentiments. “However, usually, they are not brought _to Russia_ , but rather _out of Russia_.”

* * *

Not long after Ben reappeared, they decided to return to the loft. After all, there was only so much they would learn from their surveillance. It wasn't as if an organization as competent and resourceful as the Bratva would parade their illegal activities out in broad daylight. The only benefit of the entire venture was the rough outline they were able to compile. Between the photos taken from the meager shed to the ones Ben had taken whilst traipsing through the snow, they had a basic idea of the security layout, as well as photographic evidence of where the personnel liked to spend their smoke breaks. All in all, the mission was going much slower than Alex had anticipated, especially given the speed to which he'd attacked the first half.

Entering through the side door, Alex was hit with a wall of cold air. Not knowing how long they would be out for, they had turned the heat down low, which meant that after nearly half a day of inactivity, the entire cabin had grown uncomfortably cold. Alex kicked off his shoes, shedding his thick overcoat, and headed straight for the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Although the cabin did have a heating system, the fire last night had been pleasant, the cabin small enough that the heat had quickly spread throughout the entire first floor. Ben walked in not long after and planted himself on one of the sofas. He booted up his laptop wordlessly, though judging by how he had yet to take off his jacket, he was thankful Alex had started building a fire.

Once the kindling caught and he had replaced the grating, Alex sat against the hearth, basking in the budding warmth. He waited silently and listened to the pop and crack of the fire and the halting clicking of the keyboard. Just like earlier that day, Alex found himself with nothing to do, but he felt less inclined to sit back and whittle away this time. Simmering annoyance told him that Ben had planned it that way—that his leftover guilt over losing Alex in Indonesia or reluctance to put him in danger meant assigning him a role as a bystander. Alex cleared his throat pointedly and waited.

Ben leaned in closer to his screen.

Alex crossed his arms, wrapping them around his knees whilst trying not to look like a petulant child. He knew huddling on the ground didn’t help that image, but until the heat spread into the rest of the cabin, he didn’t plan on moving. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow and leveled Ben with an even glare.

Finally, Ben looked up over the edge of the laptop and met the glare, unperturbed and unsurprised. “What?”

“What’s next?” Alex prodded.

Ben gestured to the computer, giving a slight shrug. “Until backup arrives, there isn’t much we can do.” He fell silent, though he didn’t return to whatever it was he was working on. He could see the tension in Alex’s shoulders, the way his eyes restlessly searched for something to occupy his mind, and sighed. “Why don’t you brush up on you Russian or practice your German accent.”

"What, that's it?"

Ben frowned and closed the computer slowly. “We’ve already got somewhere to start and some preliminary knowledge of the area, but generally, a support team has to be present in order to provide the support.” He hadn’t said the words in a condescending tone, but it didn’t change the fact that the words in of themselves were. Alex bristled, but Ben continued on regardless, “you know, not every minute of an operation should be filled with spectacular explosions and fire fights. I'm almost worried to ask what your other missions have been like."

Alex dragged himself away from the fire, brushing off the previous comment in favor of hiding behind an act of nonchalance and humor. He filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. “Or,” he offered, slipping into a crisp accent, one suitable for a German Sasha Adler, more out of boredom than the need to practice—and to needle Ben with the fact that he didn’t have to practice if they were speaking English— “have you considered the possibility that _you’re_ the one doing something wrong on your missions?”

Ben snorted but otherwise didn’t deign to give a verbal answer. He tracked Alex’s movements methodically as he scoured through the drawers looking for tea or coffee. He sighed, dragging a tired hand down his face, and wandered to the kitchen. Alex glanced at him once before wordlessly pulling out a second and filling it with water.

“Look,” Ben started. “Sorry, I know this isn’t your first mission, but honestly, there’s not much to do until the team gets here.”

“We could try to find more intel on Adam Bradlik,” Alex pointed out as he added a dollop of milk to the dark, steaming liquid. “Katya said Adam Bradlik was the _avtorityet_ in charge of Istraflot, so if someone there is in communication with the benefactor, it would be him.”

Ben was fixing his own tea to his liking, when the words registered. He threw Alex a teasing grin, leaning back against the wooden counter lazily. "D'you mean Ekaterina? So, she's Katya now? " He took a sip of the scalding liquid and hissed. "I was gone, what, twenty minutes?"

"Shove off. I'm being serious." Alex scowled and refused to acknowledge the slight heat that made its way into his face. "She told Pavel Bradlik has recently gone off galivanting around Italy, so it’s likely he’s not involved at all. It’s more likely that whoever is paying them to kidnap kids isn’t going to be anywhere near Istraflot, so staking out the place isn’t going to help much.”

Ben was nodding before he had even finished speaking. "You have a point, Cub, but until we have a plan—an informed and well-thought-out plan, it's best _not_ to go running around, chasing after high-ranking mafia members. Once backup gets here, we can start on more practical surveillance, but until then…"

"D'you know who they are?" Alex asked. “The team, I mean.”

Ben's face was curiously blank. "They never told me," he answered earnestly and picked up his mug, taking a long draft. Alex didn’t believe him; it was something to do with the extra verve in the man’s step as he returned to his spot on the couch and logged back into his laptop. Alex glared at the back of his head but finally accepted the fact that they wouldn’t be venturing out again for the time being. Which meant that he would have to entertain himself. He grabbed his cup and meandered up the creaking steps to the second floor.

It was much more cramped than the downstairs, which helped to contain the heat, although what resulted was a stuffy, sweltering atmosphere that smelled overwhelmingly of fir trees. Alex didn’t mind it though. Every other floorboard creaked and something in the walls moaned each time the wind blew a little stronger than normal, but it was comforting in its own way. He walked over to the arched window that looked out onto the driveway. Deep tracks carved a messy circle past the porch and off towards the main street, the snow stained a nasty grey-brown from the kickback from the tires. He sat down on the window seat, squirming against the wooden lining that dug into his back. Alex nestled himself into the rug-like blanket that had been thrown there haphazardly sometime in the past and fished out the phone MI6 had provided him.

It only took a few searches to find what he was looking for, and before long, he was completely immersed in the competitive world of _systema_ and ARB— _armeisky rukopashny boi_ , a martial art that had similarly been developed for the Soviet army. Nowadays, it had evolved into a competitive sport, much like Karate and BJJ. Both specialized in striking and grappling aimed at downing an opponent as quickly as possible. The video compilations Alex found were fascinating: the strikes fast and brutal, seemingly gaining their power from sheer force of mind. There was barely any twerk or twist from the hips, despite the universal agreement in MA that that was exactly where the power comes from. Even so, in one specific fight, one kid, Alex's own age or younger, viciously pounded and thrashed another, twisting his arm and throwing him bodily to the floor. Neither wore much in the way of protection. The smaller of the competitors curled in on himself and threw up his arms in a meager defense. The other threw strike after strike, battering the boy until finally the fight was called in his favor. Alex sifted through similar videos for what felt like hours. He focused on the posture and the fight stance, noted the differences and similarities to Karate and Krav Maga, but one thing that took his interest above the battering cork-screw strikes. The fighters endlessly trained to take punches—to the gut, to the sternum, even to the face. Massive blokes thrust all their power behind these strikes, and they just took it.

Alex thought back to his fight against Jason, the thug he had faced back in London. If he were trained like this, and he undoubtedly was if his countenance and confidence was anything to go by, it was pure luck that Alex had been able to deliver the crippling blows he had. He dropped his phone onto the sofa and dragged a hand down his face. He really needed instruction in _systema_ and maybe ARB as well; at least Katya had agreed to show him the basics, even if Ben wasn't entirely pleased with the fact.

Alex checked the time: 15:07. No wonder it felt like needles were piercing the backs of his eyes. He had been unblinkingly staring at his phone's screen for hours, between reading the history and scrutinizing the videos. And yet, according to Ben, there still was nothing to do besides practice his Russian and review the schematics of Istraflot's building, neither of which were entirely enticing. Nevertheless, he flipped to his place in the German-Russian textbook, choosing to remain where it was comfy and warm, and halfheartedly scanned the section on verbs of motion and their perfective/imperfective implications. He made it three pages before the letters began to blur together.

_Das Russische unterscheidet bei Verben, die sich auf die Fortbewegung beziehen, ob diese Bewegung zielgerichtet oder nicht zielgerichtet verläuft._

His eyes blinked lethargically, the bright white of the pages swirling with the black lettering.

_Die unvollendeten Verben stellen eine Handlung aus der Sicht ihres Verlaufs dar._ _Die vollendeten Verben deuten auf die Ergebnisse einer Handlung._

He was fluent in German—Ian had seen to that by the time Alex had been eight—but it still took a few passes to understand. _Russian distinguishes between verbs that relate to movement, whether this movement is purposeful or not_. The basic verb of motion ' _idti_ ' and ' _khodit'_ ' stated the subject goes somewhere by foot. He let the book fall flat on his stomach, closed his eyes. _The unfinished verbs represent an action from the point of view of its course._ _The completed verbs indicate the results of an action._

_Die Verben idti und ekhat' bezeichnen eine Bewegung zu einem Ziel, entweder hin oder zurück. Deswegen werden sie auch „zielgerichtet" genannt und mit diesem Symbol markiert._

Alex closed his eyes once more— _the verbs_ ' _idti_ ' _and_ ' _ekhat' denote a movement towards a goal, either there or back. That is why they are also called "targeted" and marked with this symbol_ —feeling the alluring, fuzzy whiteness of sleep creeping through his brain—

—he shot up from the window seat. His mind flashed white and spun uncomfortably as he fought to catch his bearings. How long had he fallen asleep? Had he been asleep? His hand rummaged blindly around the blanket for his mobile. The world outside had turned dark, with only a faint glow emanating from the snow as if the sun had charged it full of luminescence. Alex blinked furiously when the phone’s screen flashed on, tortuously bright, but he managed to catch the time before tossing away the offending device. 16:50. Alex was about to wonder just what had knocked him from his sleep, when an impressive amount of cursing erupted from the kitchen, and the answer revealed itself. _Ben_.

Alex cautiously stepped down the stairs, noting an ever-increasing smell of smoke, so thick that the pungent scent was actually a _flavor_ that settled in his mouth and coated his tongue. He coughed and waved a hand to disperse the cloudiness. It curled around his hand, spiraling upwards toward the ceiling in a grotty, dark fog. Walking down the hallway, Alex saw Ben frantically waving a tea towel through the air. The door was wide open, and Alex thought it a fair bet that the windows would be as well.

“Are we under attack?” he coughed. Stepping further into the room, he saw the culprit: a smoking charred rock of _something_ sat in the sink, the only non-flammable surface in the kitchen. Alex stared at the meat then turned his expression of pure incredulity on Ben. “What did that ever do to you?”

"Piss off," Ben grumbled. His voice was noticeably more husky than usual. Alex wandered over to where the cooked atrocity was soaking in a few inches of water. The flaking char and deformed callused meat made it impossible to tell just what it had been before being set on fire.

“What did you do to it?” He poked the surface experimentally and was thoroughly disgusted by a texture that was somewhere between a slimed lump of charcoal.

“I…got distracted. I think I used too much oil.” Ben pointed a finger warningly at Alex. "Just don’t.”

Alex blinked back at him innocently and frowned. "I was just thinking about your poor mum wanting you to take over the family restaurant." He caught the towel aimed for his head with a laugh and picked up a towel of his own, encouraging the smoke out through the kitchen windows. “What were you trying to do anyways? You told me you were rubbish at cooking.”

"Ekaterina texted an hour ago, saying our team would be getting in around five," Ben shrugged. "Reckoned they'd be hungry, but we may need to get takeaway…"

Alex agreed, although he wasn't sure why Ben had insisted on cooking in the first place. There were plenty of restaurants in their district, and MI6 had graciously supplied them with the necessary funds. Alex shook his head, smiling incredulously. “Fancy some Chinese?”

“I’d be down for anything not-Russian,” Ben retorted. He threw the towel down and closed the front door, leaving the windows for the time being. Although the hazy gleam had improved tremendously, a smoky mirage still clung to the air. Ben swore again and, remembering the active burner in the stove, peeked into the pot. He frowned slightly and nodded. “Looks like the rice is okay, at least.”

Alex snorted and raced back up the stairs, once again rooting around the scratchy knit blanket on the window seat. A flash of lights traveled down the main road, and he froze. The car was turning onto their drive, but the make and model was indistinguishable in the shadows of the surrounding trees. It stopped right before the house, left idling as three men exited the vehicle. The car, now visibly another larger SUV, waited a moment longer before reversing and leaving the way it came.

He glanced at the time. Ben had said the team would be arriving around five, and Alex watched the men, laden with bulky duffels, march through the snow until they passed out of sight. He snatched his phone then paused on the second-floor landing. He listened to Ben's padded footsteps and a muffled greeting. Alex inched closer, but he couldn’t decipher anything they were saying, aside from the fact that it sounded like English. Any apprehension Alex had been harboring fell away—the support team. He walked down the stairs, clenching and unclenching his fist, anticipating having to meet another group of agents that would underestimate his capabilities, but he stopped short. He made it three-quarters of the way down, when the muffled words became coherent, louder.

“What did I tell you,” a voice laughed, “nothing can keep our Fox out o’ action, the stubborn bastard.”

Whatever followed was lost to the roaring in Alex’s ears. _Fox_. Any intention he had to go and greet the team imploded with that one word. He inched around the corner, wincing at the groan the board gave under his weight. Three men stood in the threshold; one was a tall, wiry man, with short blond hair and faintly annoyed frown; the man next to him was even taller, broader, and judging by the way he was smiling and slapping the shoulder of the first man, he had been the one to speak. The last was the shortest among them and was distressingly familiar, someone he had not seen since France, when he’d nearly been vivisected by a homicidal, racist maniac.

Alex bit back a growl. Of bloody course, _they_ would be his backup.

Wolf, aside from being dressed in civilian clothing, looked very much the same. The same permanent harshness set into his face, the same military cut to his fair, the same imposing stance that screamed of competence and self-assurance. Alex noted the only difference was he seemed almost at east, now that he was surrounded by his unit—confident and reassure in a way that he hadn't been at Brecon Beacons, even in France.

"Seriously though, Fox, you're meant to be on medical till the end of December," Snake said, speaking in a level concern that Alex had never heard from the soldier. "Are you alright to be in the field?"

Ben rubbed the back of his neck and nodded distractedly. “Yeah, I’m fine to be here. Something came up—or rather, someone did,” he offered vaguely. He stepped back out of the threshold to allow K-unit access to the cabin, and as he passed the hallway, he caught sight of a flash of blond hair peeking around the corner. Alex put every ounce of vehemence and ire into a glare he could manage, stating very clearly that he did _not_ appreciate the surprise. The man had the audacity to smirk, albeit tinged with a modicum of guilt.

K-unit marched inside, bringing a fair amount of snow and ice with them, glanced around the small interior with only mild curiosity. As soldiers, they were sent to new locations all the time for their assignments, and unless they were stationed at the Ritz-Carlton, they likely wouldn’t care at all. Wolf stalked to the center of the room and dropped his bag loudly onto the floor.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded gruffly. “Quit being so bloody cryptic.”

Alex sighed. Knowing that he would have to confront them eventually, he preferred to do it on his own terms. He took the last step, crossed his arms, and, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, said, “delightful as ever, I see.”

To his credit, Wolf didn’t jump. He jerked towards the new voice, as did the others, his eyes flicking from Alex to Ben and back again. Eagle and Snake stared, eyes comically wide and confused, as if they didn’t recognize the new arrival, who seemed to have recognized them. Admittedly, Alex mused, he had only been at the training camp for a very short fortnight, and he had grown a substantial amount over the past nine months. Still, how many teenagers did they know who had trained at an SAS camp? Alex cocked an eyebrow and smirked at them, challengingly.

Eventually, the surprise wore off. Snake, the first to recover, squinted his eyes and exclaimed, "Cub?" He turned to his unit members as if to confirm Alex’s identity. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

Alex didn’t respond. His own gaze had fallen on K-unit's commander, his chest falling with every passing second. An unreadable expression had taken over Wolf’s face—one that could be anything from shock, to incredulousness, to anger. Apparently, their tenable truce after Point Blanc and the parachuting incident was anything but, if his reaction was anything to judge from. Alex tried to brush away the disappointment. Wolf's attitude was reasonable in a way. His last mission with Alex had ended with him being shot multiple times. And yet, so had Ben's…

Alex lasted a few seconds of silence before he couldn't take it anymore.

"Hungry?" He spun on his heels before the soldiers even opened their mouths to respond and marched into the compact kitchen. He ripped open the fridge and started pilfering through the various ingredients, while listening to the members of K-unit hiss at one another. Unfortunately for them, the cabin was not large enough for it to be an entirely private conversation. He caught snippets of words aimed at Ben, putting two-and-two together that they were just about as happy to see Alex, as he was to see them.

"Look," Ben hissed back. He lowered his voice marginally, but his words were still audible, "I don't know much more than you. I volunteered for another secondment cos Cub would have been here on his own, if I hadn’t."

Alex fastidiously ignored the sudden looks the unit sent his way. The idea of takeaway—and therefore, sitting and staring in silence at one another while waiting for it to arrive—was no longer as enticing as it had been. Whilst Jack more often than not resorted to meals that took less than ten minutes, Ian had ensured that Alex could at least make a decent meal if he were ever to be alone, so he knew the basics of how to make a palatable dish. And anything would be better than whatever Ben had attempted to make. Settling on a basic stir fry, Alex began chopping and dicing vegetables and heating oil in a pan, all the while keeping track of K-unit, who were still hovering just inside. He raised an eyebrow at them then pointedly at the collection of bags and duffels still grasped tightly in their fists.

"Are you planning on staying, or what?" Four heavy thuds followed the statement, and _still_ the soldiers remained where they were. Alex stopped mid-cut. "What," he demanded.

Eagle waved a hand at Alex, as if that were explanation enough. "Honestly? We figured we'd never see you again."

Alex was surprised to hear a Lancashire accent, though he realized he shouldn't have been, given that may have well been the first time he heard Eagle say anything. They had avoided him like the plague during training, leaving the majority of the derogatory comments and taunts to Wolf.

"And even so," Snake added. "This is just about one of the last places we'd expect."

Ben snorted, "I think you'll find that's typical of him."

Alex threw him a silencing look, thoroughly unamused, and returned to slicing up vegetables, with more force than was strictly necessary. He regarded the soldiers warily out of the corner of his eyes. Wolf was uncharacteristically silent. He should have snorted and incessantly groused about having to babysit a child whilst on assignment. Instead, Wolf and Ben stared at one another intently, holding a silent conversation, that Alex could only speculate on.

Eagle sauntered around the kitchen and probed and prodded absently at the stuff that laid on the counter. The scorched roast still rested in the sink but didn’t give him pause. No doubt, he must have seen worse attempts, between both his own and Ben’s lack of cooking talents. Alex moved on from one vegetable to the next, scraping minced garlic into the pan, anything to keep his hands busy.

"So, Cub," Eagle drawled, "what _are_ you doing here?" He rested his forearms on the counter as he talked, rolling a loose pepper between his hands. Alex snatched the pepper back—an action that made Eagle smirk puckishly— and shrugged.

"You can thank Alex for this assignment, actually. He's the one who figured out what was going on in the first place." Ben threw a final look at Wolf and joined the others around the kitchen table.

"What? You serious?"

Again, Alex shrugged and dropped the chicken into the pan as well before Ben got the idea that he should help.

"So, France wasn't just a one-time thing, then?" The question came from Wolf; it was the first time that he addressed Alex since entering the safehouse. Eagle and Snake glanced questioningly at their commander, and this time Ben joined them in their confusion. Wolf had been the only member of K-unit present at Point Blanc, and up until that point, Alex hadn't thought much on it, that the details may have been so classified that Wolf wasn’t even permitted to tell his own unit.

Behind them, the chicken and vegetables spit sprays of scalding oil into the air, from where it had been cooking unsupervised. Alex swore and reset the heat to a more appropriate level, and even with his back turned, he could feel the prickling awareness of intense stares. "So, what are you doing here exactly?" he asked, stirring the vegetables. "You're not exactly spies." It would have made more sense if Blunt had assigned them more SIS operatives, people who were used to masquerading as someone else in order to obtain information.

"No, but SAS do take part in covert intelligence," Ben reminded him. "They’re here to help with recon and offer support wherever needed. Like when you inevitably manage to burn down another trading company.”

Eagle choked on a carrot he’d been nibbling at. "Sorry, what?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “That was one time, and if you remember, _I_ wasn’t the one who started that fire.” He added a few final touches to the stir fry and popped a piece of chicken into his mouth experimentally. Not exactly restaurant quality, but it would do.

“Why are _you_ here, Cub?” Snake asked. Alex was somewhat pleased to note that he hadn’t been mistaken in remembering the man was Scottish, though the accent was not as noticeable after years of living in England.

He fetched some bowls from the far cupboard and left them stacked off to the side before answering. “To look around. No one would suspect Sasha Adler of working for British Secret Service.”

“Sasha? I thought your name was Alex?” Wolf broke in.

A pounding was slowly growing behind Alex's eyes, and he reckoned frustration was the primary cause. When he'd volunteered for this mission, somehow, this wasn't what he had had in mind. "It is. I'm here undercover, as Alexander Adler," for added emphasis, he allowed a slight German lilt to enter his voice, "and Russians don't really use the name Aleks.” Alex grabbed one of the bowls and filled it to the brim with a mix of stir fry and the rice Ben had made earlier. It looked a little on the crunchy side but edible, nonetheless. "What about you," he asked. "What do I call you, lot?”

Three of the soldiers glanced at one another uncertainly. Not for the first time since seeing them again, Alex realized that they were exceedingly less intimidating than before. He wondered if it was because they were dressed in something other than military greens, or if after everything he had seen and done, they simply weren't anymore. The scowl was back on Wolf's face when he grumbled, "on assignment, we go by our call signs."

Alex bit back a scowl and picked up his plate. "Fine. Whatever. Help yourself," he muttered, waving at the pan and stalking away to one of the sofas.

He heard Ben respond, but frustration drove him past the point of caring. He plopped down on the floor, his back pressed against the hearth. Alex flicked on the tellie and, mindlessly, began flicking through the channels, shoveling spoonfuls of food into his mouth. After jumping through a news channels, it landed on an old-styled Claymation background. He watched the opening credits curiously, the letters too artistic and the words too fast for him to comprehend, but as soon as a small creature with oversized, fluffy ears went spilling out of a box of oranges, he immediately recognized the beloved classic. He would have continued to flip to the next channel, but a pair of legs appeared in his periphery.

Eagle sunk onto the sofa beside him, followed by an uncomfortable, pregnant pause filled with Soviet styled music. Alex got the feeling that he was being examined. Sure enough, glancing over at the other man, Eagle was watching him appraisingly.

Alex paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What?"

“It’s not a matter of trust,” Eagle said. At Alex’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “the name thing. Or it is, kind of. We don’t know you, so it’d be kind of weird if we already trusted you…”

Alex swallowed another mouthful and shrugged, turning his gaze back to _Cheburashka_. If they didn’t want to establish any kind of rapport with him, that was fine. They hadn’t made an effort—or rather had done the opposite—to get to know him all those months ago in Wales, at a time when that was an encouraged part of Selection, so there was no reason to expect it of them now.

Snake and Ben came over next and squeezed together onto the other sofa, Wolf falling in next to Eagle. They ate silently, the only sound coming from the occasional clink of metal on porcelain. Amusingly, none of K-unit complained the choice in show, although when Eagle actually looked at the screen, his face morphed into one of bemused horror.

"What the hell is that thing? And why does it look so…sad?”

“Cheburashka.” Alex scraped his bowl clean and set it off to the side. “You'd be sad too, if you were found in a box of oranges and no one wanted you."

Eagle jabbed his fork him. "Point, but that doesn't explain what the hell it _is_. It's not normal." _And neither is this conversation_ , Alex thought. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that these guys, the ones who had made his life a living hell, were sitting around a television watching a Soviet cartoon. Absurd didn’t even begin to cover it.

Snake shoved his empty dish away and rolled his eyes. "What, and giant alien puppets with tellies on their stomachs are? I'm sure it's—a…it's got to be a…monkey of some kind. Right, Cub?"

Alex shrugged. " _On_ _Cheburashka_. Er weiss nicht, was er ist." _He’s Cheburashka, He doesn’t know what he is_.

Ben cracked a grin, though he tried to smother it in his bowl, and to Alex’s surprise, he saw the barest of twitches come from Wolf. From then on, the rest of the evening went well, if not a little stilted. Alex wasn't sure what to make of K-unit, but they weren't acting outwardly hostile or completely indifferent like in the past. Instead, they were actually attempting to be amicable. When the episode of Cheburashka ended, a different Soviet classic rolled around, but it played in the background, disregarded. Alex listened and observed silently as the soldiers eased into a comfortable rhythm, catching up with Fox after his time spent on medical leave. Apparently, the rest of the unit had been stationed in France for the duration. Not on active missions as they were a man short, but they had other duties to fulfill whilst on various bases. It had been a shock receiving new orders to ship out to Russia, still missing their fourth man, and even more surprising to hear that the FSB were not only willingly allowing the intrusion but also providing equipment and housing.

When Ben began to detail the investigation prior to MI6's involvement and fill in any gaps left by the operation briefing, Alex decided it was time for him to take his leave. He wasn't all that tired given his nap and the fact that it wasn't that late in the evening. However, now that all parts of their team were present, the real investigation could begin, and his gut told him that after today, there would be far less downtime to be had. Alex slowly got to his feet, cracking loose his stiff limbs from his perch on the floor. He took one look at the dishes and sighed. Although he had cooked _and_ saved them from having to chip away at the burned scrap leftover from Ben's cooking attempt, he felt _a little_ guilty at just leaving it. They had just flown in from France, after all.

He had just reached the bottom step, when a hand caught his shoulder. Alex stepped back down and watched as Ben shifted and glanced behind him at his lounging unit-mates. He looked hesitant, reluctant almost.

"Just—give 'em a chance, yeah?" Ben said finally. "I know it was rough back at Brecon, and I don't know what happened between you and Wolf in France. But you can trust them to have your back."

Alex bit the inside of his cheek but nodded, nonetheless. "I'll give them a chance, but they have to trust me too."

Fox carded a hand through his dark hair and closed his eyes. "It's not that they don't like you, or don't want you around, Cub." He sighed heavily, trying to put his thought into words. "They—they're SAS; they signed up for this. When they look at you, they see a kid on an assignment that can get dangerous real fast. It's not something we're used to."

Alex did understand. He'd seen the same quandaries in all of his past allies, but he couldn't help but think he wasn't so much a kid anymore. Kids didn't do what he did. Kids didn't keep doing what he did and go back looking for more.

Alex nodded once. "I'll give them a chance," then with a fierce look, he added, "but if it's anything like Brecon Beacons, I'm not gonna take it lying down."

Ben smirked, equally as fierce but also slightly amused. "I expected nothing less."

* * *

**Translation and Transliteration:**

СОЛОКОВЫ = SOLOKOVS

Добрый вечер…Я думаю, вы нас ищете. Меня зовут Вениамин Ильич Солоков. А это мой племянник — Александр Адлер = Dobry vecher… _Ya_ _dumayu_ _,_ _vy_ _nas_ _ischete_ _._ _Menya zovut_ Veniamin Ilyich Solokov _. A ehto plemyannik moi_ Aleksandr Adler = Good evening…I think you are looking for us. My name is Veniamin Ilyich Solokov. And this is my nephew Alexander Adler.

Все счастливые семи похожи друг на друга; каждая несчастливая семья несчастлива по-своему = "Vse schastlivye semi poxozhi drug na druga; kazhdaya neschastlivaya sem'ya neschastliva po-svoemu" = "happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" (opening lines of Anna Karenina)

Пошли = Poshli = let's go

Так, ладно, мы доберёмся до явочной через минут тр— = Tak, ladno, my doberyomosya do yavochnoi cherez minut tr— = Alright, we will get to the safe house in around th—

Простите, Екатериниа Николаевна, вы не говорите на английском? Просто это, Alex мало говорит по-русски = Prostite, Ekaterina Nikolaevna, vy ne govorite na angliiskom? Prosto ehto, Alex malo govorit po-russkii = Excuse me, Ekaterina Nikolaevna, do you speak English? Alex doesn't speak a lot of Russian

Прости = Prosti = excuse me

Река Москва = Reka Moskva = Moscow River

Пахан = pakhan = godfather

Шантаж= Shantazh = blackmail / chantage

Добра пожаловать домой = Dobro pozhalovat' domoi = Welcome home

Тапочки = tapochki = tapochki / slippers

Сушки = Sushki

Насколько ты знаешь русский (язык) = Naskol'ko ty znaesh' russkii = How much Russian do you know?

Мало. Я знаю падежи, но не знаю много слов. Мне трудно потому, что я хочу… = Malo. Ya znayu padezhi, no ne znayu mnogo slov. Mne trudno potomu, chto ya khochu… = A little. I know the cases, but I don’t know a lot of words. It’s difficult because I want…

Спокойной ночи = Spokoinoi nochi = Goodnight

Девушка = devushka = young woman / girlfriend

Авторитет = avtorityet = authority

Конечно = konechno = of course

Армейский рукопашный бой = armeisky rukopashny boi = army hand-to-hand fighting

идти / ехать = idti / yekhat' = to go (by foot, unidirectional) and to go (by car, unidirectional)

Он Чебурашка. Er weiß nicht, was er ist. = On Cheburashka. = He is Cheburashka. He doesn't know what he is. (play off his tagline Я Чебурашка. Я не знаю, что я)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fox - Ben Daniels (alias Veniamin Ilyich Solokov)  
> Cub - Alex Rider (alias Sasha Adler) (Alyosha*)  
> Ekaterina Nikolaevna Azarova (Katya)  
> Pavel Bradlik - Pakhan of Solntsevskaya Bratva  
> Adam Bradlik - Avtoritet of Istraflot branch and 2nd cousin of Pavel Bradlik
> 
> Depending how I feel, I may rewrite the last scene. It may have a bit of strangeness, but let me know your thoughts if they are strong one way or another


	9. Was mich nicht umbringt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly had had another part in the layout but then the chapter got really long…so next time.  
> What are people's thoughts? I am always looking for ways to improve my writing, so any thoughts on the balance of action to dialog to emotion would be very welcome. This is all for fun for me  
> Also thoughts on Yasha and Katya. I do have backgrounds for both of them and a reason for the Sasha/Alyosha switch if people are interested

Ben propped up the SUV’s bonnet and waved a hand dramatically. With any luck, anyone that happened to look their way would have surmise the two men, sitting creepily in their dark Sudan, were simply having engine troubles. Add to the fact that Ben had poured in a fair percentage of diesel—it was _his_ car after all—and the engine puttered angrily, releasing a small flurry of dark smog. As absurd and cliched the act was, it did have its uses, such as warding off curious members of the Russian mafia. Ben hopped back into the driver’s seat, roughly rubbing his hands together and throwing his unit commander a lopsided grin. After all, what was the point of being a spy if he didn’t get to act like James Bond once or twice.

Wolf rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the tablet in his hands, swiping through the various photographs, schematics, and profiles that the FSB had provided them. The files were surprisingly thorough, complete with known contacts, frequented bars and restaurants, and presumed aliases. Ben had already perused through it all earlier that morning; Katya had sent the files earlier that morning—far too early to be considered a civilized hour—and he had to admit, however grudgingly, that the Russian agency had been rather forthcoming with their intelligence. A fact that starkly contrasted nearly every interaction he and any other soldier had had in the past; and Ben had a rough idea as to why they were suddenly so loose lipped; and it had everything to do with a certain fair-haired enigma with a penchant for finding trouble.

Ben drummed his fingers against the steering wheel whilst he waited, watching the warehouse with only half of his attention. Istraflot’s activity was much like the day before: a particularly large lorry had arrived and quickly cut the engine whilst workers stacked large wooden crates along the loading dock. One man yelled across the yard to someone out of sight and slapped his friend on the shoulder, laughing raucously. It had been Wolf’s idea to return to the location, insisting on getting his own idea of the ins and outs, although he hadn’t forced the other two members of K-unit to join. He would have denied it, of course, but Ben knew it was to let them catch up on lost sleep after a few grueling tasks in France.

He glanced over to the screen and saw Wolf passing through the surveillance photos of three men. Most were taken from some distance away, the background blurred into nothingness so as to focus on the subject in question, although a few were taken from official documents judging from the universal scowl that accompanied passport photographs. Wolf paused on one particular photo of three men. It must have been captured months ago as they were sitting outside a restaurant, squinting against the warm sunlight, their sleeves rolled halfway up their arms. They were Adam Bradlik, Andris Kozlovsky, and Gleb Melnyk. The _avtorityet,_ the _bratok,_ the _derzhatel_. The inner circle of Bradlik’s operation. Ben had to admit, if he didn’t know what he was looking at, he wouldn’t have been impressed. Bradlik himself had the appearance of an oligarch’s son, with light brown hair, dark eyes, and an air of nonchalance and ease, undoubtedly confident of his place in the world. Whilst he wasn’t exactly _unfit,_ he had trained for aesthetic purposes, and the care that went into his wardrobe spoke measures about his priorities. His second-in-command, Kozlovsky, looked more the part of a member of the Russian mafia, capable of holding his own in a fight. The third man, Gleb Melnyk, was the bookkeeper for the entire Solnetsevksaya Bratva and, judging from his appearance, had no intention of doing more than punching numbers.

Wolf huffed and closed the tablet. “Don’t think they’ll be much of a challenge if we ever had to engage,” he muttered dismissively, scowling at the building across the street.

Ben threw him a look out of the corner of his eyes but quickly went back to staring absently out the driver’s side window. “We thought the same thing about Cub,” he pointed out and fidgeted, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the stiff seat. Not that there was much to be had; the only consolation was the fact that Ekaterina hadn’t left them with the tiny, rundown Lada they’d used the day before. Ben wasn’t sure his legs would have survived reconnaissance in that thing.

A middle-aged man stepped out from the main door of Istraflot, yelling something over his shoulder with a course laugh and slamming the door behind him. He strutted off to the side of building, where he struck a match and hunched his shoulders around the delicate flame in order to keep it alive long enough to light a cigarette. He flicked it away after a moment and glanced lazily around to entertain his mind whilst the nicotine began to course through his bloodstream. By pure, unfortunate chance, the spot he’d chosen afforded him an unobstructed view of the SUV parked across the street. He didn’t appear overly concerned by its presence, but that was not to say he wouldn’t begin to wonder why the disabled car never received any help. Ben checked his watch; if the man didn’t return to work anytime soon, they would have to leave.

Wolf made a sound in the back of his throat, which could have been a noise of agreement, but Ben couldn’t be sure. The commander’s eyes were set on the building across from them with his usual intensity, except…there was something else. Perhaps it was the time spent in MI6, the extra training dedicated to reading past the surface of situations they had insisted on, but Ben felt something was off, knew it instinctively. Wolf was not the most expressive, or open, with his emotions, never had been, and that had been a welcome change during Selection when a fellow soldier would be training with you one day then gone the next. Reservedness and aggravation were James’s default settings—a defense he had developed over the years with his family—but it made deciphering his inner turmoil difficult to say the least. It meant Ben couldn’t tell if Wolf was aggravated because he hadn’t slept long enough or was stuck in Russia on an assignment with Double-o-Nothin’.

Ben kept his eyes on the worker leaning against the wall as he asked casually, “what happened in France?”

Wolf didn’t outwardly react to the inquiry. He was sat there, mutely, watching the latest lorry lock its doors and pull off down the road. The silence lasted so long that Ben didn’t think Wolf would do anything but glare and grind his jaw, as if that wasn’t answer enough, but then he broke it with growling sigh. “I was part of an extraction team. One of Six’s agents had sent out a distress signal, and we were waiting for orders to go in, when all our sensors started going crazy.”

“Alex?”

Wolf nodded. “Kid was flying down the mountain on an ironing board of all things.” He delivered the line so indifferently, his voice so methodical and toneless that he sounded like he was debriefing a superior. “Hours after waking up in hospital, Cub leads me and the team through the facility he’d just escaped from. I caught two slugs saving him from this beast of a woman, and next thing I know, he’d run off to try and stop the mastermind of the whole thing.” Wolf maintained the apathy up to the point of getting shot, was careful in withholding any outward tell that would betray his thoughts, but Ben could see the building tension in his hands that screamed how much effort was going into _not_ clenching his fist. Wolf was furious. And not because he’d been shot.

“What about you?” Wolf asked after a long silence. “How’d you get involved with the kid?”

Ben huffed a sound that could have been a laugh. “My experience is somewhat similar, if you’d believe it. I ran into him whilst I was on secondment.” He rubbed at his shoulder, almost absentmindedly. He still couldn’t comprehend the amount of chance that had been gone into him seeing Cub again. So much about that operation still made no sense, the most pressing being why Alex had been involved with ASIS in the first place. He knew from the meeting with Jones that Alex had agreed entirely specifically so he could meet Ash, Scorpia’s double agent, but when pressed on the matter, Alex had reacted defensively. Ben couldn’t deny he was curious, but he was more concerned with the total lack of self-preservation that Cub put into satisfying his own curiosity. And it wasn’t just having a vested interest in making sure the kid survived.

Wolf caught the motion, and his eyes softened, slightly. “It still causing you some trouble?”

Ben dropped his hand and gave a single nod. Across the street, the main door slammed open, and two men rushed out, one trying to catch up to the first. They stopped in the loading bay, garnering curious looks from the workers in the vicinity, although they quickly returned to their tasks at hand. It didn’t do well to stare at the men with many nefarious connections to the Muscovite underworld. Andris Kozlovsky had caught Adam Bradlik by the arm and was carrying the conversation with more restraint than the former. Bradlik pulled his arm free, throwing a warning gesture to his _bratok_ , and proceeded to ring someone, the same irate sneer on his face. Kozlovsky snapped at a few employees who hadn’t been fast enough in hiding their interest.

Ben idly snapped a few new photos of the interaction, heaving a sigh when he confirmed he wasn’t capable of lip-reading Russian. He let the camera drop and settled back further into the driver’s seat. A dull ache had begun to spread from his knees, seeping down his legs the longer he stayed in that position. Even if no one grew suspicious of their presence, they would have to leave before there was a need to amputate some of their lower extremities.

“I never thought I’d see him again,” Ben said suddenly. “Then a week or so ago, he turned up on my doorstep with a story about missing kids and getting chased around London by some Bond villain lackey.” He laughed humorlessly. “I couldn’t very well let Six send him here alone.”

Wolf grunted what Ben reckoned was assent.

The smoker, who had stamped out his cigarette, straightened himself up, brushing off residual ash. He paused before he set off for the main building, throwing one last look over his shoulder in the direction of their SUV. Ben opened the car door without hesitation. It was time to go.

* * *

Alex refused to admit he was hiding. He may have been in his bed, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but he refused to concede to the fact that he was purposefully concealing himself from the view of others, specifically the view of K-unit. The bedroom—which was no longer simply his, but rather split between him, Ben, and Eagle—provided a refuge of sorts from the awkwardness and stiffness that reigned downstairs. He had woken up to Ben already gone, disappeared off somewhere with Wolf in tow, and had wandered into the kitchen to find anything containing caffeine, but what he found instead was Eagle and Snake conversing quietly over some eggs. They’d fallen silent upon seeing him, as if they hadn’t thought he’d still be there the next morning, that he hadn’t _actually_ been there in the first place. It was so stilted and pained that, after finishing his first cup of coffee, Alex had gathered a healthy collection of breakfast items—the bag of _sushki_ among them—and the largest mug he could find and retreated back the way he’d come.

It wasn’t that they had reverted into the prats he’d known from Brecon Beacons, but rather they were attempting to be _cordial_ with him. Hesitantly so and uncertain, but nearing on amicable as they’d bade him good morning. Alex didn’t know what to make of it.

Resting back against the headboard, Alex flipped through the files on all the parties involved in the investigation, though it was doubtful that it would provide anything new. Both Katya and Ben had alluded to the dark reality to human trafficking and the fate the missing children faced. With every passing day, the chances of recovering even a body dropped significantly, something that did not bode well given how long Zoya Arain, Jonathan Lloyd, and Hanna Vivier had been missing for. According to every crime statistic website, they were most likely already dead.

Alex tore at his nailbed till it bled. He refused to accept that. Something about this case, the inconsistencies and difference, didn’t line up with what the experts were saying. It didn’t make sense that the benefactor, whoever they were, was going through all that trouble, financing ECO’s operations all over Europe and delivering them to God-knows where. If this were a conventional human trafficking syndicate, there would have been no reason to go to such lengths and bring them back to Russia. Even Katya had been confused; Slavic women and children—even travelers sometimes—were imprisoned then shipped _out_ of Russia, not in….

Whatever the benefactor wanted them for, Alex doubted, and hoped, that it was to do with sex-trafficking.

The front door slammed shut, and muted voices drifted up through the floor. Pushing away the papers, Alex sat up straight and strained to identify just who was speaking. The distance garbled the sound enough that the words were indiscernible, much like the night before, but one voice stood out from the rest, higher in pitch and distinctly feminine. So, not Wolf or Ben, he figured with a grin. Alex flung away the bed covers and trotted down the stairs, curiosity simmering at the forefront of his mind. Whilst Katya had mentioned that she would be operating as a liaison during the investigation, he hadn’t expected her to drop by so soon seeing as they haven’t really had time to find any new leads, and he hadn’t done anything that would have violated the FSB’s regulations regarding MI6’s presence there—not yet at least.

He came around the corner to find a rather amusing sight: Katya and a young man stood opposite Snake and Eagle. Aside from the man Alex had yet to meet, all of them were silently regarding one another, coolly and defensively. Katya stood in the middle of the kitchen, her arms crossed, her head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed as if trying to discern if the two opposing men were worth the introduction. Snake and Eagle, for their part, appeared equally unhappy with her sudden arrival, although they had to show a certain amount of tolerance as they were members of special forces operating in a foreign country—Snake was managing the polite tension better than Eagle, who was grinding his jaw in lieu of stoic blankness. The stranger was leaning back against the threshold, arms similarly crossed. His eyes were set on the wooden floor resolutely, but, as much as he seemed to be fighting it, his face was twitching with amusement. He glanced up in time to make eye contact with Alex, and the man threw him a wry smirk, rolling his eyes, as if to say _idiots_.

Alex liked him immediately.

“Why are you here?” Snake asked patiently to offset the bluntness of the question, and elbowed Eagle subtly when the man muttered something under his breath.

Katya’s eyes fell on Alex, and she nodded to him in answer, visibly trying to release the tension in her shoulders, her face falling into a more neutral expression than the thin-lipped frown from a moment ago. She shifted closer to the door, somewhat unconsciously, until she was almost bumping shoulders with the stranger. Partner maybe? The other two solders spun around, taken unawares by Alex’s sudden appearance. They each gave him a small, amicable smile, and copied Katya’s attempt at appearing neutral and completely _at ease_ in the company of a foreign agents. He sent them an amused smirk to say he knew exactly what they were trying to do—and failing to.

“Hello, Katya.”

“Sasha,” she greeted, her eyes flicking to the two soldiers. “How are you?”

“Well, thanks.” Vaguely, Alex wondered if he should bother with introductions. He didn’t think Katya had been the agent in the car the night before, so she probably hadn’t met the other half of his team yet. That being said, it was likely they had already done so the moment they arrived. Instead, he said, “Ben’s not here at the moment. But I don’t think there’s anything new to report…”

Katya almost smiled but shook her head with a small laugh. “No, I am not here to check in.”

“Oh. Then…?”

“I have some information you might have interest in, and,” Katya gestured to the man at her shoulder, “I wanted to introduce you to Yakov Mikhailovich, my partner at FSB. Yakov, Alex Rider.”

Yakov stepped out of the threshold and offered out his hand. The man was tall, nearly a head above Alex himself, but not brawny and imposing like most special agents were. He was dressed casually, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, which couldn’t have provided much in the way of warmth. He must have been in his mid-twenties, with short dark hair, sharp features much like a hawk’s, and although he wasn’t smiling, his face was too kind and carefree to take his austere expression seriously. If Yakov recognized Alex’s name, he didn’t show it. His grip was strong and unyielding.

“Nice to meet you _,_ Alex.”

“You too,” Alex managed politely, fighting the flinch that wanted to make itself known. After getting used to Katya’s accent being a mix between English, Italian, and German, hearing one so _Russian_ and familiar took him by surprise, icy blue eyes flashing through his mind. He swallowed back the odd scratch in his throat and tried to offer a smile.

Katya and Yakov stepped further into the cabin, trading their shoes for slippers out of habit, much to the dismay of Snake and Eagle, who had undoubtedly hoped that this was simply a fleeting introduction. “Do you remember you have asked me about the organization called ECO?”

“That’s that charity, right?” Eagle asked. “The one that was snatching the kids in the first place?”

Katya nodded and wandered unconcernedly to the kitchen, nudging a few of the items out of the way until she found the kettle. It was easy to make yourself at home, when your bosses opened the place, it seemed. “Sasha, you asked me, whether they exist in Russia, or if FSB can link other disappearances to the organization,” she elaborated as she peeked into the spout to judge the level of water.

“Did you find anything?” Alex asked, tracking Yakov’s movements from the corner of his eyes. The agent was peeking out the kitchen window into the back yard then around the inside of the cabin without any obvious intention, simply examining the provided space. Alex wondered what he was looking for.

Katya placed the kettle on the stove before answering, leaning back against the counter. She shook her head. “They do not operate in Moscow.”

The statement sent a small pang of disappointment through Alex. Although it didn’t affect the investigation much considering they had moved their focus onto Istraflot, it still would have been useful to have another connection in Moscow, if only as a backup. Alex nodded his head, biting his lip, and fished through the cabinets for any extra mugs they might have, when the kettle whistled shrilly.

“We do know, ECO was found in Berlin by Adrian Meyer during the 80s.” Katya proceeded to methodically prep the teapot she’d pulled out of seemingly nowhere. The amount of tealeaves to water was somewhat concerning—Alex could have made fifteen or so strong cups with the same amount—but he wasn’t about to criticize her brewing abilities. Katya wrapped a towel around the pot before she clarified, “East Berlin.”

The explanation seemed to hold more significance for Snake and Eagle, and Alex looked between the two pointedly. He had, of course, learned about the Berlin Wall in school—when he actually managed to attend chis courses, that is—and knew that the city had been torn in two. West Berlin, effectively a democratic island in a communistic sea, was controlled by the Western Allies, whilst East Berlin and half of Germany was under Soviet control. The country remained torn in half until 1991, when East and West Berliners alike stormed the wall and tore it down, brick by brick. What this had to do with an evil charity organization, Alex had no idea.

“Although Bratva come from gulags in Siberia, they—were very powerful in East Berlin,” Yakov explained, hopping up on the counter.

“DDR records show Meyer was detained by KGB for a time. Then, one day, he walked free.”

Alex stared at Katya. “What, they just let him go?” he questioned slowly, not for one second believing that the KGB, the security agency that was known for its extreme brutality and singular focus of achieving their objectives, would just _let a prisoner go_. Unless… “What did he do? Give them money? Turn someone in?”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “Probably both. But not long after his release, the local _avtorityet_ met an unfortunate end. It is likely, he and KGB found an agreement that was to both their advantage. Such understandings were common.”

Alex accepted the information, storing it away into the back of his mind, if somewhat confusedly. As much as he appreciated her looking into it on his behalf, she could have easily said this over the phone, even simply sent a short text. His confusion must have shown clearly on his face, because Katya shrugged, her lips twitching in that small smile.

“This, of course, is not only reason for our visit.”

Yakov grinned and looked out the window again from his perch on the counter. He nodded to himself, as if to confirm whatever observations he had made from earlier, then regarded Alex, assessing and evaluating the teenager with a trained eye. “I hear you want to learn _systemu_?”

Alex started, then grinned widely. “Wait, seriously?” Maybe it was because he had suggested it so randomly that first day they had arrived in Russia, or that Katya hadn’t been sincere in offering to teach him, but Alex had just assumed that he wouldn’t end up learning the Russian fighting style.

Yakov cocked an eyebrow bemusedly but nodded, nonetheless.

Snake shifted to the side and crossed his arms, his face falling into a small grimace. “The martial art? Why do you want to learn that?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“I’ve run into a few blokes who’ve used it, and I don’t really fancy going in blind again. Katya agreed to teach me some basics, so I’d have some idea on how to defend myself.”

“Honestly speaking, though,” Katya broke in, “I prefer other forms to _systema_ and ARB _—_ eh, which is army hand-to-hand fighting, because I only begin learning systema when I started at FSB. So, although I can teach you some, Yasha,” she gestured to her partner, “can show you much more.”

Yasha—or Yakov, Alex wasn’t sure what he should call the man—hopped off the counter and clapped his hands together excitedly. “ _Poidyem_? The—the yard is ideal. Snow will be good, and less painful.” _Let’s go?_ He didn’t smile, but his eyes glowed in exhilaration and delight, as if he had been waiting all day for the opportunity to dance around in the snow.

Alex paused. The thermometer just outside the window, which was covered in icy stalactites, read – 3 degrees. Whilst the snow might pad their falls—which seemed to be over 80% of ARB and _systema_ —the freezing cold and iced surface of that snow wouldn’t be so pleasant. When Alex pointed this out, Katya threw him a wry grin.

“It could be much colder, Sasha.”

Alex furrowed his brow slightly. That was the second time she had called him that. He didn’t think Alyosha and Sasha were interchangeable—not like how Alex and Al were in English—but then again, he wasn’t entirely familiar with Russian naming nuances. He vaguely wondered if that was because he had asked about the use of Alyosha the day prior. Alex shook off the thought; it wasn’t exactly the most pressing matter.

Alex followed Yakov out the side door to the back of the cabin, the snow crunching and caving in under each step. It definitely would not be _less painful_ to get thrown into the snow, Alex thought after finding a rather sharper section of snow. To his amusement—and bemusement—Snake and Eagle appeared shortly after Katya, though they found a protected nook along the side of the cabin wall and watched attentively. Although they didn’t appear as against Alex’s curiosity in _systema_ , at least not as obviously as Ben had been, they weren’t relaxed either, their bodies tense and guarded. Did they think that Yakov was about to skewer Alex with an icicle? The thought almost made him laugh darkly—to think that they appeared protective when they had actively shunned him months ago. Or perhaps it was concern of what Ben would do if he came back to find Alex bent in half like a pretzel, but they didn’t think they had the authority or prerogative to forbid Alex from training. —Not that Alex would have listened, if they’d tried, but he’d have been amused had they attempted it.

Yakov took up a basic fight stance in the center of the yard and gestured for Alex to do the same. The stance was reminiscent of Krav Maga with a few adjustments: hips squared off to the opponent, feet shoulder width apart, weight evenly distributed, head was up. He looked completely relaxed. Alex copied it instinctively, and Yakov nodded his approval.

“Now, before we start. This is very important. If you do not remember nothing of training, remember this,” Yakov said, enunciating slowly and clearly. His face grew serious, fatally so. “The only rule is there are no rules.”

Alex stared at him owlishly, wondering if he was meant to laugh or take the statement at face value, but within a few seconds, the veneer cracked. Yakov grinned wolfishly and shook his head disappointedly. “ _Chyort voz’mi._ You Brits have no humor,” he disparaged wistfully. He heaved a dramatic sigh and returned to his fighting stance, adopting a more realistic, practical tone that better suited an instructor. “It is true—there are no rules, but because it is—tool to survive. _Systema_ is not only fight style— _poznai sebya_. Know yourself. Know your strength and your weakness.” He struck at an invisible opponent, fast, brilliant strikes that were aimed at the chest, throat, and temple. “You are small, but you are also fast. With _systema_ , use opponent’s strength against each other. If you control six—eh, six parts of opponent,” Yakov gestured to his neck, shoulder, elbow, waist, knee, and ankle, “you control them. I will show you, yes?” The more the Russian spoke, the less familiar his accent became. It was thicker and more pronounced than Yassen’s had been, and Yakov had nothing else in common with the assassin.

Yakov waved him on. “Strike once,” he ordered.

Whilst he didn’t think Yakov would appreciate a telegraphed punch, he also didn’t want to risk hitting the man, who was gracious enough to be teaching him in the first place, in the nose. He settled for a proper strike, but one that was much slower than he could have thrown. Alex aimed for Yakov’s face, his fist driving for the man’s nose. Then, the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, uncomfortably sharp snow biting into the back of his neck.

Yakov offered out a hand and pulled Alex to his feet with a grin. Alex blinked.

“How did you do that?”

Yakov gestured for Alex to strike again, and he did so, albeit slower. This time, Alex saw what happened before he felt it. Yakov moved, just enough to redirect Alex’s fist past his head, then he struck the back of Alex’s head, drove the other hand against his face, elbow to his chest, and dropped him into the snow for a second time. Again, Yakov helped his opponent to his feet.

“In _systema_ , when we have opponent with bigger strength than our own, we use intelligence and, ehm, fill the brain with too many strikes. Protect and strike, at same time.” He performed the motions in the air, one arm blocking his face. “Protect, strike, strike, strike.”

Over the next few minutes, Yakov delivered more instruction in the proper technique of ARB and systema, and Alex found himself grinning, despite the harsh burns and bruises from repeatedly getting thrown into icy ground. Yakov was a strong fighter and, despite the height and obvious strength difference, was able to show Alex key targets to aim for, telltale warnings of someone going in for a throw, and a few proper defenses. Most takedowns involved multiple strikes, one incrementally harder and more controlled than the last. Much like with the first throw Yakov had demonstrated, he used Alex’s forward momentum, letting him _walk into_ his own demise. He took Alex through it step by step, often using tapping or clipping the appendage that wasn’t quite right, after they had run into a language barrier. Yakov’s English was immensely better than Alex’s Russian, but a few times, Alex had simply stared uncomprehendingly till Katya called out the instruction again.

Yakov demonstrated another take down, lifting Alex up like a puppet and insinuating the devastation of _throwing_ an opponent into a wall or onto an otherwise painful object. Thankfully, he didn’t actually drop him and set him down in order to show the technique more slowly.

By the time Alex brought Yasha to the ground—he knew the man had overreacted to the pretend strikes, but he still felt a glimmer of pride at correctly maneuvering the takedown—he was panting, his cheeks a deep crimson from a mix of exertion and cold. Somehow, completely unfair in Alex’s opinion, Yakov seemed unperturbed by the freezing temperature, still with complete control over his appendages to deliver precise strikes to devastating areas. If he hadn’t been pulling them at the last moment, Alex wouldn’t stand a chance.

“ _Neplokho,_ Sasha,” Yakov complimented, brushing the collection of snow off his trousers.

Alex grinned broadly. It was rare for him to fight for fun these days; the last time he had been to his Karate dojo had been the week of Ian’s death, and, of course, after that, fighting had become a tool of survival rather than entertainment. Practicing with Yakov, though, feeling the exhilaration and rush of power that came with blocking a strike then delivering one of his own was unparalleled. He missed it.

White clouds danced before his face as he fought to catch his breath. “Could you show me how to throw a strike? I’ve watched some videos, and they look…different from how I’ve learned,” he said in between gulps of cool air.

Yakov pondered the request momentarily, then nodded, sinking back into a fighting stance. He threw a single strike, as if deciding how to actually describe what was so different about it. “You are right. It is different. Ehm, power _systemy_ is—eh, she comes from—eh, _blyad’._ Katenka—” he broke off into a flurry of Russian that didn’t seem to have any sort of inflection whatsoever, at such a speed Alex could barely tell where one word began and another ended.

Katya pulled a face, leaning against the cabin wall. “ _Ne znai._ Eh, emotional is closest, I think,” she yelled back with a shrug. _Don’t know._

Yakov shrugged unconcernedly. “The strength is here,” he said and jabbed at his own body to indicate just where the focus should be. “But more than strength of the body. It is emotional— _dushevnaya_ —strength. Breath, thoughts, _dusha_ —all give power to your strike. I forget how to say it, but hit with all of the fist, not just these—” Yakov went on to show the nuances of a strike, that were so unlike anything Krav Maga or Karate had taught him. You struck with the entire fist, not just the knuckles. You stood relaxed, free of tension—in other words, seemingly open to all sorts of attacks.

It was uncomfortable at first, but Yakov shadowed a few parries with him to get used to the feel. They had moved onto brief contact strikes, Yasha offering an outstretched hand as target, when Alex heard it.

“Lot of good this is gonna do when Cub goes against someone twice his side. They’re not exactly just gonna roll over for him, are they.” Eagle might have intended the statement to be a comment to Snake, but he delivered it loudly enough for it to cross the short distance from the cabin to the middle of the yard. Alex bristled, despite knowing that he had no hope in hell to actually be able to throw someone Yasha’s size; still the open acknowledgment of the fact stung his pride.

Yakov had also heard the sentiment, though it took him longer to put meaning to the words. He paused, exchanging a glance with Katya, who was stood off to the side, arms crossed nonchalantly, and shrugged. “True,” he admitted. “But only if you fight honest.”

“Except no one fights fair in a real fight,” Snake added evenly, though his tone and forcibly relaxed posture suggested he wasn’t just playing at being the devil’s advocate.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s a useless skill to learn. I’m just saying one afternoon isn’t going to help much when Cub goes up against a guy who got a hundred pounds on him” Eagle maintained, his tone defensive.

To Alex’s surprise, Yakov nodded in concession. It shouldn’t have been too shocking, the agent had been working with Alex so as to give him a feel for the correct movement, but at the same time, he had also emphasized the possibility of a smaller fighter taking on a larger adversary.

“Then take them by surprise. Strike first and hard.” It was comforting in a way to hear Alex’s own strategy reflected in Katya’s words, from someone who undoubtedly faced opponents disproportionate to her size during her own altercations. Katya turned to the soldiers beside her, straight faced, and nodded toward the center of the backyard, where Yakov and Alex still stood. “If you are so confident in your opinion, perhaps let Alex try.”

Snake raised an eyebrow stoically and regarded Cub, recalling the past hour and the training that would still be fresh in the boy’s mind, then he shook his head with a small smile. Eagle had the grace to grin sheepishly, but it was too late to back out after he had raised the concern in the first place. He shrugged and marched his way through the snow, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. As he grew closer, Alex felt little spikes of doubt riddle his _systema_ training—as minimal and hurried as it was already—with holes. Eagle was built for strength, his years of army training adding to his muscular frame. He was a prime example of an opponent Alex _wouldn’t_ use unfamiliar techniques on in a real situation.

As Eagle came to a stop a few steps away, he threw Alex a toothy, apologetic grin. Alex wondered vaguely if challenging him to a spar was Eagle’s odd attempt to make up for being such an arsehole in the past, or if he truly was concerned that Alex would be disillusioned from his hour of systema training and actually try and throw an adversary in a real fight. It didn’t help that the soldier’s expression gave away nothing but sheepish amusement.

Yakov had called Katya over as well, conversing with her in that same rapid, incoherent barrage of Russian. Katya’s lips twitched blithely, but otherwise she remained as stoic as she had always been. She grasped Alex by the shoulder, drawing him away from the two other men, and said in low, conspiratorial tones, “Strike as Yasha taught you and aim for here,” —she tapped just above her navel— “then to try to take him down. Do you remember?”

Alex nodded, though he didn’t bother pointing out that there was a big difference between remembering how to do it and actually executing the move.

“Remember to hit his face softly. Or you might break a hand.”

Katya nudged Alex back towards the two men, where the snow had been trampled into one hardened clump of ice and ravaged grass. The two men, aside from the brief near-animosity that had existed earlier, were stood next to one another and exchanging a few muted words. Snake had ventured closer to the battleground—looking almost as if he were entirely amused and exasperated by the situation.

Alex took up position across from Eagle, who stood at the ready as well. He knew in theory what he had to do in order to succeed in bringing the soldier to the ground— _Take them by surprise. Strike first and hard_ —but Eagle was also aware of what was coming, which meant that genuine surprise was out. Luckily, brute force wasn’t the only way to knock someone down. All Alex had to do was offset his balance and let gravity do the rest, but that still required some surprise or providence to be on his side.

Yasha had backed away a few steps, out of range of any errant punches or thrown bodies, and bumped shoulders with Katya, who pointedly caught Alex’s attention. She held his gaze, flicked her eyes to Eagle, then…winked? Alex forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him; he knew Eagle wouldn’t attack until Yakov called it—that was a courtesy drilled into every martial arts training session, regardless if it was in the military or some after-school program—but he had to focus.

Yakov gave them the signal to begin, but immediately after, he continued on in a sober tone, made that much solemn by his intense accent pulling at the vowels of his words. “ _Vy znaete_ , masters of _systemy_ can take even strongest fighters to the knees with single strike.”

“I know another strike that can bring any fighter to his knees,” Katya said offhandedly.

Alex knew it was a cheap shot, knew that in any other sparring situation he would _never_ attack a distracted opponent, but just moments ago Eagle and Snake had been debating the finer points of a real fight, and Alex had been known to use ‘dirty’ tactics in the past—he was definitely not above crying and playing the lost child card. Not to mention, he still held a _bit_ of a grudge against K-unit.

So, when Eagle’s eyes widened in horror and his focus shifted, Alex struck.

He drove his fist into his solar plexus. Eagle grunted, arching forward instinctively. Alex came in, hooking an arm and pressuring the nape of Eagle’s neck, and thrust him downwards, flipping the man to the ground and retaining a grip on his wrist. The sound of Eagle’s impact was immensely satisfying.

It was entirely possible that Alex enjoyed that a little too much, he thought.

Someone laughed loudly, but it didn’t come from his left where he would have expected. Alex glanced up from where he still had Eagle posted to the ground and found that at some point within the last minute, Ben and Wolf had reappeared. And they were both looking highly amused by what they found, not bothering in the slightest to mask it.

“Alex, if you’re done beating on Eagle, we have some things to go over,” Ben grinned.

Alex, still pulsing with pride from actually bringing Eagle to the ground, smiled broadly, his breath coming in shallow, short bursts. He held out a hand to Eagle, who took it immediately and hefted himself back to his feet, grumbling under his breath. He was smiling, though, a sardonic, self-depreciating little expression that grew wider as he rubbed at his chest. Eagle winced exaggeratedly and reached out, almost hesitantly, to clap Alex on the shoulder.

“Not bad, Cub,” he said and headed off towards the cabin. Again, pride swelled in his chest.

Another hand landed on his shoulder. This time it was Yakov. “ _Prosto blestyaschiy_ ,” he managed to say around the humor that threatened to strangle his words. _Simply brilliant_. “Not move from _systemy_ , _no_ _vse zhe_ _polichilos’_. _But it worked, nonetheless._ Alex couldn’t hold back the pull of pride and satisfaction at the words as they traipsed back across the snow.

A wall of stifling heat surrounded them the moment they passed over the threshold, enveloping them in the pure hominess of the cabin. Someone had already revived the fire, which was crackling lazily in the hearth. The paltry scent of stir fry drifted in from the kitchen, where Wolf was assembling a hasty lunch, curiously unwrapping the teapot that had been abandoned in favor of training. Snake and Eagle had taken over the sofa nearest to the fire and lounged patiently whilst recovering movement and warmth in their extremities. Eagle, and even Snake, offered Alex a small friendly grin, as if he, Alex, hadn’t just sucker punched him in the gut and thrown him into the snow. Alex wandered in, much slower than before, meticulously brushing himself clear of any remaining snow and stripping off the extra layers he’d accumulated. The hum of exhilaration was rapidly fading into the background as one question echoed in his mind: was this how missions were supposed to be?

Even when he had been undercover with the Friends, learning how to emulate the mores of a gentile family, he hadn’t experienced…this. His missions included being thrown into the deep end, occasional downtime that still required him to upkeep the imposter’s guise he had been forced to embody, and eventual spectacular explosions that resulted in his near-death. K-unit, the FSB agents, a safehouse—none of it tracked with what he knew from MI6 operations.

Alex, with jerking movements, took a seat on the hearth and waited, _hating_ just how fast this confusion coupled with uncertainty snuffed out the miniscule amount of comfort he’d managed to find since K-unit’s arrival.

Ben suddenly appeared, claiming one of the comfier armchairs as his own, and then with some unspoken announcement, the others gathered in the lounge as well. Yakov placed down a tray, laden with mugs, the teapot, and kettle, and began pouring a few servings from the pot. Alex took the one offered out to him, watching as Katya mixed some water from the kettle into her own. That explained the frightening amount of tea leaves, Alex realized with half-hearted interest.

Alex sipped carefully at the scalding liquid, holding the mug just so, as the ceramic leached off a portion of the tea’s heat. “Did you find anything new whilst you were out?”

Ben shook his head. “Wolf wanted to get an idea of the area for himself,” he explained, “but, now that we’re all here, it’s time we make a plan on how to move forward.”

 _Finally_. Alex all but physically shoved away the annoyance and discomfort. Although it had only been less than two days since their arrival in Moscow, it had felt as if they’d been wasting away weeks whilst the bastard who paid for the lives of children continued on whatever it was, they had planned. Alex perked up visibly, leaning forward in anticipation.

“We saw Adam Bradlik today,” Ben continued. “He looked…on edge. Now, it could be because he lost an entire operation in London, it could be because he didn’t get paid for nabbing Kyra Vashenko, or maybe some legitimate business deal fell through. Whatever the actual reason, I think we should follow him tonight, see where he goes.”

Wolf, who didn’t seem bothered by the fact Ben had taken the lead, nodded.

“And what if he’s just heading home to watch the tellie? What good is that going to do?” Snake asked. “We can’t exactly just sit around every night hoping that the benefactor to make contact.”

“No,” Wolf agreed. “Which is why we’re splitting up. Half of us will follow Bradlik; the other half will break into Istraflot.”

“And what do we do about the fact that Fox is the only one fluent enough in Russian to be of any use?”

“I can go with you,” Katya volunteered, and Yakov frowned. He wasn’t the only one to do so; the FSB had been clear in not wanting to upset their tenuous equilibrium with the Solnetsevksaya mafia, and that meant avoiding direct confrontation with one of their agents. “It will not be a problem with FSB as long as we are not caught by Istraflot guards.”

Wolf nodded again, however more reluctantly than before. “Alright. Me, Snake, and—”

“Ekaterina.”

“—Ekaterina will break into Istraflot and see what we can find there. Fox, you and Eagle will shadow Bradlik.”

Alex scowled, his teeth grinding painfully. It didn’t miss his notice that he had been blatantly left out of both halve of the plan, just another nail in the coffin that was his and Wolf’s relationship. He would’ve thought skiing down a mountain and getting thrown into a train would have proven his capabilities, but apparently that wasn’t the case. “What about me?” Alex demanded. “I should go with Ben and Eagle; two guys out with their kid brother or something would be way less suspicious than the two of them by themselves. They obviously look like they’re in the military or something.”

Eagle scratched at the back of his head. “You know, Cub does have a point,” he admitted. “Especially if Bradlik’s already gone a bit spare.”

“Fine,” Wolf growled. “You’re with Fox and Eagle.”

Alex knew better than react more than a simple nod, but he itched to remind them that this was _his_ mission. They wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for him. He had done all the legwork in England, and he didn’t need their permission to go along. Especially not Wolf’s.

Sensing the sudden turn in atmosphere, Katya cleared her throat and rose to her feet gracefully, glancing at her watch as if just realizing how late it had gotten. “I will return later to go over plan for Istraflot, around 6:00.” She nudged Yakov, nodding towards the door. “Yasha?”

The man nodded, somewhat less in tune to the tension between Alex and the K-unit leader, and clambered to his feet, disentangling himself from the collection of legs that crowded the small sitting room. He gave Alex one small grin in parting and followed his partner. Then suddenly, Alex was, once again, alone with K-unit.

Ben dragged a hand down his face then checked his own watch with a sigh. “We’ll head out at 16:30. Catch Bradlik before he leaves for the day.” He pushed himself to his feet, cracking his back as he did so. “Find something to eat beforehand, yeah?”

Alex shrugged halfheartedly and headed to the kitchen, not really feeling hunger yet but knowing he would very soon if he didn’t eat. He fixed himself a bowl of leftover stir fry and rice, sticking it in the microwave long enough to cook it through all the way. He was about to go and retreat back into his room for the time being, maybe look over the files again to see if he missed anything, maybe even study some Russian if he couldn’t, but as soon as he turned around, Wolf was stood between him and the hallway. He and Alex stared at each other, neither saying a word. Wolf didn’t move around him to get to the kitchen but didn’t move out of the way either. Alex felt annoyance burning in the back of his throat, wearing away at his patience.

Finally, Alex had enough. “What?” he snapped.

Wolf didn’t seem shocked by the tone—not that he wasn’t known for his own briskness—but something else was underneath the surface of his expression. He scratched his face, now looking anywhere but at Alex, and muttered, “how’ve you been?”

Alex was so taken aback that he opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Wolf, sensing the awkwardness, cleared his throat and amended, “last time I heard, you’d been in hospital.”

The postcard. Shame, instilled in him by proper British society, crept up the sides of his neck, but Alex refused rectify his curtness, just because Wolf had had the decency to send him a get-well card. A shadow shifted behind Wolf’s shoulder, and Snake stopped in his tracks. He had obviously heard the brusque exchange and didn’t want any part of it, suddenly deciding he could get lunch in a few minutes. Alex focused back on Wolf, biting back any annoyance in favor of being cordial with the commander of his support team. They would be working together, after all.

“I’m fine,” Alex responded, adding as an afterthought, “thanks. For the card.”

Wolf nodded, still definitely out of his element, leading Alex to wonder just why he was putting himself in this position. Not unkindly, Alex raised a brow. “Is there anything else you wanted to…?”

Wolf shook his head mutely and, finally, stepped out of the way. Between Wolf’s askance manner and Snake’s own curious stare, Alex couldn’t get upstairs fast enough.

* * *

The Hotel National, located on Mokhovaya street, hosted a very specific kind of clientele. Being within distance of all the grand sights of the city, like the Bolshoi Theatre and Saint Basil’s Cathedral, attracted the affluent travelers looking for a cultural experience, whilst the legacy and reputation of such a luxurious hotel lured in those who like to flaunt their wealth and enjoy the finer aspects of traveling to a foreign city. One allure in particular, and the very reason for Artyom Zharkov’s own visit to the hotel, was the Beluga. The restaurant and caviar brasserie, found on the second floor, was adorned with masterful portraits and gleaming crystals, the walls accented with gold trim. Much like the hotel that housed it, the Beluga reflected the architecture of Moscow in 1903, although a few additions had been made over the years that only added to the ambience and comfort. Large windows afforded a nearly unparalleled, panoramic view of the Kremlin and the historic Red Square below.

There were only a few patrons inside, although this was not surprising given the late hour. They sat quietly, sipping at their drinks and chatting lightly with their companions. Artyom took in the main room of the Beluga disdainfully. It wasn’t the first time he had been to the brasserie. As it was so close to the governmental capital, many officials took their more informal meetings over dinner, often choosing the historic National Hotel for its location, and Artyom had been present for more than one of those gatherings over the years. Still, he thought the lavishness and exorbitance pointless.

A server, a young man dressed impeccably in black and white, respectfully took Artyom’s overcoat and inquired about him wanting a table, but Zharkov’s gaze slid over the other patrons appraisingly. He found them inconsequential. They were completely satisfied with discussing the latest, valueless rumors and indulging in rudimentary pleasures, having no regard for anything but the present. The server had paused uselessly and shuffled to the side, when Zharkov had neglected to answer.

“Sergei Kuzhugetovich?” Artyom asked.

The young man started but nodded quickly enough, setting off immediately. He led Artyom to the back corner of the restaurant, where an older man sat staring idly out one of the large windows. He was older than Artyom Zharkov, his hair already heavily grey and beginning to retreat from his forehead; his dark eyes tracked Zharkov’s arrival steadily.

“Artyom,” he exclaimed, standing to grasp the newcomer’s hand tightly. There was slight tinge of red gracing the man’s portly cheeks, the easy smile that pulled at his face and spoke to just how long the man had been waiting at the restaurant.

“Sergei. Thank you for meeting me.”

Sergei Kuzhugetovich Oorzhak dismissed the statement with a small wave of the hand. “I was all too happy that you called. Boris has been more trying than usual.”

Artyom simply nodded. Ever since the incident in Murmansk—the details of which still eluded Artyom Zharkov despite his numerous contacts and near desperation to learn about the radioactive graveyard—the president of the Russian Federation had become particularly active in departmental affairs, much to the annoyance of his cabinet, who much preferred the laissez-faire attitude of the past. After their few meetings, Artyom, personally, had taken a disliking of the man. He had an inexplicable complacent regard for the future.

“Are you hungry, Tyoma,” Sergei inquired. Ignoring the slight shake of his friend’s head, he caught the attention of the nearest waiter, the same young man who had taken Artyom’s overcoat upon his arrival, and beckoned him to the table. “A bottle of Stalichnaya, two glasses, and the double serving of kaluga caviar.”

Artyom caught the boy’s arm. “Tea. With jam,” he ordered stiffly.

After the young man had gone, Sergei watched his friend with open amusement. Neither had change much since their deployment, least of all Artyom. He never did understand why Artyom refused a drink and looked strangely at those who enjoyed the more indulgent parts of life. Sergei had asked numerous times only to be rebuffed every time. Eventually, he accepted the oddity for what it was and approached it teasingly. “You really should try the caviar,” he mused, fishing out an old Cuban cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket pocket. He didn’t light it; smoking was strictly prohibited indoors, and in any case, the National Hotel was too old and fragile to withstand the damage from frequent violations of that law. Instead, he drew the cigar under his nose appreciatively and sighed.

Artyom raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“Dahlia has been nagging me again about quitting,” Sergei admitted. “Something about cancer, but what doesn’t kill me…And after all we saw in Afghanistan, cancer is the least of my worries.” He took one last whiff and tucked it back into his pocket. “How is Mila?”

The waiter returned then with their drinks carefully balanced on a silver tray, a second server carrying the roe, and Artyom waited silently. He spooned a precious amount of jam into the cup before answering. “It has been a difficult week.”

Sergei nodded knowingly. He filled both glasses, took one for himself, placed the other before Artyom, and raised it in a toast. “ _Za nashyx zhen i ix schast’ye.” To our wives and their happiness._

Artyom raised his tea and took a small sip. Artyom could remember the last moment Mila had been wholly—in every respect—happy, could picture her standing before the bay windows in the office, encircled by the ambient sunlight. She had smiled at him and wrapped her arms around her belly, proudly, protectively, fiercely. When Artyom set the teacup down, it clattered angrily against the saucer.

Sergei watched Artyom grip his arm in an attempt to control the jerking movement but didn’t comment. He knew all too well the cause of the damage, and Artyom detested any indication of sympathy. Instead, he spooned olive-colored roe onto a small piece of bread and savored the flavor. He took another bite then cleaned his hands on a serviette. “So, why did you want to meet, Tyoma? You aren’t known for seeking out company.”

“You already know why, Seryozha.”

Sergei sighed heavily, suddenly losing the carefree demeanor that accompanied shots of alcohol, and shook his head. “How long has it been? Since you started all this.”

Artyom sipped at his tea and frowned. It was already lukewarm. “Forty-two years. I came under Nikita Aslanov a year before we were drafted.” His hand drifted unconsciously to arm, massaging the trembling limb with surprising gentleness.

“Nikita Aslanov,” Sergei reminisced wistfully. “That is a name I have not heard in a long time.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and took in the sight of his friend with obvious intent. “Even he, with all the backing of the Union, couldn’t achieve what you are trying to do.”

“That is because he didn’t know what we do now. The advances in science in the past decade alone would be unfathomable for him to even comprehend. It is no surprise he wasn’t able to succeed. His theory, however, is still sound.”

Sergei dug out another spoonful of caviar and carefully laid it across the black bread, almost artistic in its placement. The man admired the morsels spread liberally over the crème fraiche, but, instead of indulging on the delicacy, he placed it back on the plate. “This was nearly impossible to get during the Union, do you remember?” he commented offhandedly. “A single tin of caviar cost more than a day’s work. Now, I can get it with every meal if I so choose. How times have changed.” He brushed off his hands again and reached for the untouched glass of vodka that sat in front of Artyom, knocking it back in a single gulp.

Artyom didn’t mention that he and Seryozha had vastly different experiences growing up; whereas Sergei was born and raised in the capital, Artyom had lived in Kiev until relocating to the poorer neighborhoods of Moscow. Although Sergei had faced certain bigotries due to being a Tuvan, he had not wanted for much as a child—at least, no more than any other children of high-ranking military officers.

“You have achieved so much in Aslanov’s name, Tyoma. The advances you’ve made in preventing what happened to Lyubov—” Sergei caught himself too late and sent an apologetic frown to his friend, not before seeing the well-disguised flinch. “I am sorry, my friend, but even if I believed you could succeed, Boris will not approve of a grant. You know better than most, what happens to a person who spends their entire life chasing after a far-fetched dream.”

Artyom scowled. They may be friends, but there were things Sergei didn’t—couldn’t—know. Aslanov’s failure was one of them. He may think he knows the details of the man’s downfall, but in reality, only Artyom and Daniil did. He tamed his expression into a mask of criticality. “You are the Minister of Defense, _Sergyozha_ ,” he reminded firmly. “It is your decision who receives such grants.” He reveled in the tight pull on the man’s lips and the twitch in his neck. Hubris had always been his weakness. “In any case, I am making significant progress, far more than Nikita could have ever dreamed of.

Sergei froze, his glass of water halfway to his lips. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer, conspiratorially, arms resting on the table. His eyes flicked over Artyom’s shoulder, into the dining room to ensure there were no curious ears. The last few patrons had long since trickled out, and now it was just the two men in the corner of the restaurant. The servers stood behind the bar, sending occasional glances to the pair, but only with mild interest. They had enough work to prep the dining room for the dinner rush, in any matter.

Satisfied that they would not be overheard, Sergei continued, “what do you mean ‘significant progress?’ Tell me this is all theoretical.”

“Of course, Seryozha. One must perfect the research first before conducting such experiments.” Artyom’s face never changed from same blank, analytical expression he almost always wore. Most people, upon meeting him, found the inexpressive, impassive nothingness disconcerting, but Sergei had long grown accustomed to it, had even considered it a comforting constant when they’d been in hospital all those years ago.

Now, it was not so comforting. Sergei held Artyom’s gaze for a long moment then shook his head. “I am sorry, Artyomka, I truly am, but I cannot help. Boris wishes to play allies with the rest of the world, and research such as yours will not be looked upon kindly. Maybe someday.” He waved at one of the servers and handed over a rather thick stack of rubles. He stood up, collecting his belongings, but Artyom didn’t even twitch. Sergei sighed. “Send my love to Mila. I know Dahlia would love to see her at the New Year’s celebration, as would I. I know the timing is not ideal, but perhaps it would do both of you good.”

“I will pass it along,” Artyom agreed distantly. “ _Do svidaniya_ , Seryozha.” _Goodbye, Sergei_.

“ _Do svidaniya.”_

Artyom drew his finger along the brim of his teacup, the porcelain growing warm under his skin. He watched the ripples race across the surface, heightened by the ever-present quake in his arm. Sergei would have no choice but to agree once Artyom provided him with irrefutable proof. _T_ _sel’ opravdyvaet sredstva_ , he promised himself.

* * *

Translation & Transliteration

Браток = bratok = bro / brother (lit. brother with cutsie suffix)

Яков "Яша" Михаилович = Yakov "Yasha" Mikhailovich

Пойдём = poidyem = let's go

Чёрт возьми = chyort vozmi = fucking hell (ish)

Познай себя = poznai sebya = know yourself

Неплохо = nyeplokho = not bad

блядь = blyad = whore but used like fuck

Катенька = Katen'ka = close nickname for Katya

Не знай --> не знаю = ne znayu = don't know

вы знаете = vy znaete = do you know

но все же получилось = no vse zhe polichilos’ = but everything worked out

Душевная = dushevnaya = relating to the soul

Просто блестящий = prosto blestyaschi = simply brilliant

До свидания = Do svidaniya = goodbye (lit. till next meeting)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It is considered rude to speak about a person, who is present, in the third person, which is why it feels off during Katya/Yasha translation interactions  
> 2\. Grammar mistakes (at least for non-anglophones) are purpose and inspired by knowledge of the language and based off of interactions with native speakers of the respective languages  
> a. Russian does not have articles (a/the) so that is sometimes left out or the in/definite aspects are confused. Also possessive pronouns are treated very differently—either they are used much less often than in English, or there is the use of another (svoi/ свой) in the context of relating to the speaker/subject of the sentence.  
> b. Male speakers of Russian are known for speaking fast, with limited inflection, and speaking until they need to breathe. Of course, not all of them, but many do  
> c. the change in spelling for systema relates to Russian conjugation and placement in the sentence :)  
> 3\. Russians do not smile in greeting like Americans or other countries. It's a thing. If you're curious, look up Russian smile culture  
> 4\. I highly encourage people to watch clips of systema fights; it’s so strange if you’ve studied other fighting styles because the strikes just do not seem to follow the laws of physics. Although I had doubts about the training scene/fight with Eagle, I’m going to stand by it because some systema ‘masters’ are smaller and are able to take down massive fighters, and I (5’5) have been able to throw someone just by knocking off their center of balance. It does highly rely on surprise though…  
> 5\. there is a sub-language called mat (мат) in Russian which includes using swears as filler words (hence Yasha)


End file.
